Adrift at Sea
by SpaceNut
Summary: With his queen's life in limbo, Maxon finds it hard to sleep- let alone run a country. America's heart attack has left her family in the wreckage of a terrible waiting game, hoping against hope that this won't be the end. Maxon is struggling to find the strength his family, and nation, need with America's string in the slippery hands of the fates.
1. Chapter 1

I hadn't actually noticed the beeps until now. Once I heard them though, I couldn't stop.

 _Beep…Beep…Beep._

They came at a set pace, consistent. I counted the pattern. About two seconds apart. At this point they were much steadier than I was.

I looked up at the heart monitor next to America's bed, spiking and dropping, back and forth. I didn't know if I should feel comforted or broken at the sight of it. Yes, she was still breathing. Thanks to every saint above, air was still reaching her lungs, precious blood still pumped through her veins, and I was sure that her mischievous little brain was buzzing behind those closed eyelids. But they were still closed. It had been over two days, and _nothing_ had changed. I dropped my head back into the white sheets that smelt too clean in all the wrong ways, not enough like _her_.

I'd leeched every detail I could from Dr. Ashlar, and learned the scariest news. The sooner she woke up, the better. Every day that passed decreased her potential survival rate. In cases like these, as Dr. Ashlar put it, "time is either the friend or the enemy". I was praying fervently for a friend. I needed a friend right now.

It was a little after two in the morning. There was no natural light in this section of the palace—no windows. A comatose queen needed to be kept in secure quarters, deep inside protective walls and far from prying eyes. But I was really starting to pine for a window. Time had begun to blend together and the dreary clock on the wall was the only indication of how many hours had sapped by. Minutes had started to feel like hours and hours like minutes, but the clock glaringly corrected me.

The papery sheets were pulled up to America's chest where a nurse had folded them back. Her hands had been placed elegantly on her stomach, one over the other. She still looked like a queen. It bothered me. I felt like she was being forced into a part of proper refinement while my world was crumbling. Nothing about this situation was peaceful, so I reached out and slipped her hand off her abdomen, down on the sheets, encased in my fingers. She looked a little bit less like a porcelain doll without her hands folded so regally. A little bit more like my America.

"Come back," I whispered weakly. And then something in me broke. " _Come back_ ," More fervent this time, pleading.

Twenty years ago, it had finally felt safe in this castle. We weren't constantly being shoved into safe rooms or counting bodies left by an attack. I guess it was foolish of me to hope the threats were fizzling away, but I'd never thought the palace itself would be what I should fear most. I never dreamed life as a queen would be the death of my Ames. I was so blind.

"I should have made you sleep more." It was like my regrets washed over me in waves of torment. "We should have taken that vacation to Italy we always talked about—just you and me. Marlee would have watched the kids. And if not her, than your mom or Kenna. Or Aspen and Lucy. Or… or somebody. They wouldn't have minded. We should've just gone." I gently bent my neck until my forehead rested on her arm. I let my eyes look at her limp fingers wrapped in my own. "I should have—" But I couldn't get it out. There was too much running through my brain, too much in one mourning moment. I turned my head. My lips grazed her skin. "There's so much I should have done."

I was still there with my lips on her wrist and my fingers engulfing hers when Eadlyn slipped through the door. I picked up my head when she entered, but didn't dare move my hand. I needed to feel her and know that Ames wasn't gone yet.

"Daddy?" Her voice was high, but she tried to keep herself composed. I could tell by the way her fingers twitched that tears were on the way. Eadlyn. She was too much like her mother. She tried too hard to be strong.

I held out my free hand as she stood hesitantly in the threshold. "Come here, baby girl."

And just like that she was curled up on my thighs, clinging desperately to my neck, like she was just three years old again. Heck, _I_ felt like I was three years old again. Funny how when things hurt, you feel younger. You just want someone to hold your hand and tell you everything's going to be okay.

Her tears came hot and fast, like the heavy summer rains that hit Angeles every August. She tucked her knees up and I had to let go of America's hand to keep her steady. Her head nestled easily into my shoulder. I could feel the tears through my shirt.

"Shh, shh, shh." The sound was soft and familiar on my tongue. It took me back to nursery days in rocking chairs after bad nightmares or during particularly loud thunderstorms. "I've got you. It's okay, baby girl."

She pulled herself closer as her sobs grew more intense. Her breath was running low and she hiccupped through it, trying to breathe and cry at the same time. "Daddy…" She repeated, but her voice was small and muffled against my chest. I barely heard her say "We can't lose her."

I lowered my head. The pain in my chest was growing, blossoming, and overcoming me. It felt like my lungs were going to burn. Finally I gave up and let myself weep with Eadlyn. My forehead found hers. My shaking matched her own. I squeezed her a bit tighter to me. "I know baby."

I couldn't do this. I couldn't walk my daughter down the aisle without America smiling at me in reassurance that Eadlyn would always be daddy's little girl. I couldn't crown her as queen without my own queen beside me. I couldn't hold Ahren's first child or keep Osten from launching firecrackers in the Women's room or practice French with Kaden… I couldn't picture any of it without her. My chest heaved and Eadlyn sank lower into me with a deeper sob.

Her words came in pieces, broken by the hiccups. "What are... we going… to do?"

I looked at Eadlyn's tremorous form in my arms and imagined my boys as they mourned. I could picture Osten, lying face down on his bed, all of his seemingly endless energy seeped away. Kaden would take it on something else, probably stabbing a dummy in the fencing training room. Repeatedly. And Ahren— _oh Ahren_. He'd blame himself. I knew he would. I needed to speak with him before he did anything stupid.

All the rotten images of them—my precious children, my most loved—stirred me. If anything, I had to be strong for them. I had to help put them together or we'd all fall apart. If only it was a mask, they needed to see me as someone they could lean on. And we'd fight together. _And we would get our America back._

 _Hey guys! Call me SpaceNut! I've actually been away from FanFiction for a while, but after searching high and low for a story I could read about America's comatose days and coming up empty-handed, I felt inspired to write my own. This is my first Selection fic, but I'm excited to see where it goes! Leave a review if you enjoyed the read. More chapters to come! And of course, all rights belong to Kiera Cass. _

_God Bless,_

 _SpaceNut_


	2. Chapter 2

I hadn't stepped foot in my office in five days, so I knew the knock was inevitable. It was around noon and I'd taken my lunch in the infirmary. The staff had grown accustomed to my whereabouts by now and knew to send everything to America's recovery room.

A knock sounded from the door. A young man walked in when I called that the room was unlocked. He bowed quickly and I noticed the sweat already accumulating on his forehead. He was new. Whatever message he carried, he must be nervous to deliver it.

"Please, present your message" I beckoned, trying to sound regal, which was more difficult than usual since I hadn't shaved in over forty-eight hours.

"Your Majesty, the advising council has requested your attendance this afternoon. They say pressing matters must be attended to." His eyes were glued to the floor. "And they offer their condolences."

I laughed gruffly. At this point, I'd racked up a rather impressive collection of sympathetic remarks. "When do they want me?"

"As soon as possible, Your Majesty." His head stayed bent as if he'd never finished bowing. Poor kid. There'd be a knot in his neck if he didn't straighten up soon. "They are meeting as we speak."

I nodded, not surprised. I had assumed they'd be meeting in my absence, doing as much as they could for as long as they could. But eventually they'd need the king. Eventually I'd have to leave.

"Tell the council I will arrive once Queen America is being properly looked after." He bowed again and left as quickly as he came.

I wasn't going to leave her alone. That was out of the question. I was confident that every maid in the palace would come running if I requested an attendant for the queen, but that wasn't what I wanted. When America awoke, she should have family. She deserved to open her eyes to someone who loved her as more than royalty. I hated to call on Eadlyn, though she'd be happy to take over for me. There was already so much on her plate. Osten had fencing training at noon. That left Kaden. I sent for him by the nearest maid and he came running in a heartbeat.

He was out of breath when the door swung open. His eyes were wide. "Is she—"

I shook my head. "I'm sorry, son. I didn't mean to get your hopes up."

He nodded solemnly, catching his breath.

"I just wanted to ask if you'd sit with mom while I attended a meeting."

"Of course." Kaden was already claiming the seat next to America's bedside. He held her hand gingerly. He'd always been gentle.

I hated that this situation was starting to become our new normal.

"Did I interrupt anything?"

"Just studying," He shrugged. His thumb rubbed over America's knuckles.

It was then that I realized I wasn't the only one who desperately wanted to care for her. I wasn't the only buried in worry. I knew by the way Kaden's eyes hadn't left his mother's face since he'd entered the room. She was in good company.

"I'll be back in an hour," I said, brushing a hand over his shoulder, lingering for a moment.

"No rush," He murmured.

Despite myself, I smiled.

* * *

One hour had ticked into two, then three. I felt terribly guilty and was practically sprinting back to America's room to relieve Kaden. My chest began to ache by the time I hit the hospital wing. How did I get old so fast? Was age already wearing me down or was it just life throwing a few more curveballs at me? As if I didn't already have enough to juggle.

The advisors had been concerned about how to present the Queen's heart attack to her people without chaos ensuing, without making it seem like a prince had abandoned his country, without the monarchy appearing weak. I wanted to scream. _We are weak._ _I am weak._ And it wasn't too hard to tell. I could see it in the purplish shadows that seemed to haunt my eyes nowadays. It was clear when the palace staff shuffled their feet through silent halls, not bothering to greet one another. My children sat sickeningly silent at the dinner table each night. We were broken.

I quietly opened America's door, but Kaden was nowhere to be found. Instead, I saw the familiar pressed, gray uniform of Illea's military. Aspen was seated next to America, holding her hand.

I can't deny the initial surge of jealousy that flooded my chest, but it faded even quicker than it came. America thought it was cute, the whole protectiveness thing, but she was also overjoyed that Aspen and I had actually formed a friendship. Not just an awkward-handshake-forced-by-our-wives friendship, either. It was an I-trust-you-with-my-life friendship. A you-saved-my-wife-and-I-can-never-stop-thanking-you friendship. But it still felt a little weird seeing him in an intimate moment with her.

Aspen rose to his feet immediately, quickly dropping America's hand, and offered a deep bow. "Your Majesty, Prince Kaden wished to run to the kitchens for a snack. I was nearby and he asked me to stay with the Queen while he was away."

He had a questioning look on his face. He was examining me, unsure of how I'd react. I waved him off.

"It's fine, Aspen." If we were in a meeting I would have been more professional, addressing him as Commander Leger. But it was just us and we were both pretty worn. I wasn't in the mood for pretenses. I hoped he would follow my lead and drop the titles. I didn't need military personnel right now—I needed a friend.

He nodded and retook his seat but didn't try to hold America's hand again.

"Her fingers get so cold I thought about bringing her mittens." I tried to sorta half-smile, but it didn't come.

Aspen nodded. "She should be as comfortable as possible."

My heart warmed a bit at this, imaging America fussing at us for fussing over her. Slowly, I made my way from the door to my chair. My head was pounding a bit. I probably shouldn't have run. I was only two steps away from sitting down when fuzzy little black spots started to block my view of the room. I tried to blink them away, but they just grew larger. It wasn't just my chest aching now. My knees felt heavy, like someone had tied iron blocks around my legs. My body started to tip off balance.

Aspen was quick and he shot up, anticipating my fall, but the old injury to his knee had worsened over the years and he wrenched it the wrong way trying to hold me up. My vision blurred and I dropped. I could feel my left side colliding with the hard metal frame around America's bed, my shins hitting the tiled floor. Pain shot through my nerves and I let out a low groan. I wasn't unconscious, just dizzy out of my mind.

"Max-"

"I'm fine," I murmured, but the slur of my voice was clear, even in my foggy head.

I kept my eyes closed, trying to recuperate.

"Maxon, what happened?"

I slid myself down into a sitting position so the metal would stop digging in to my hip. "I ran here from the council board room. Probably exerted myself." It was a fact grudgingly admitted. I hadn't thought I'd lose my youth so quickly. I hadn't even hit forty yet.

"Don't give me that." Aspen's voice rumbled. Slowly, I allowed my eyelashes to flutter a bit. A small gap of light seeped into my dark vision and I thought I could make out Aspen's silhouette to my side. "You ran nine miles with the new recruits last week."

It was true, I liked to train with our initiates when I had a free hour—but that way practically never these days. I thought it was good for them to stop thinking of the royals as distant figures plastered over tabloid covers and television screens. After all, these young men were risking their lives for us. They should know we were fighting for them, too.

I shrugged off Aspen's words, though. Right now, I didn't think I could run nine _feet_.

"Have you been sleeping?" He asked. I immediately wished I could trade Aspen for another guard—anyone other guard, really. I could lie to them. Aspen would see through it, though.

"Of course. I couldn't go five days straight without sleeping." I hoped he'd leave it at that and get me an ice pack or something. The pain wasn't subsiding as quickly as I'd hoped.

"How much exactly?"

"A little bit here and there," I replied vaguely. The darkness was starting to ebb so that only the corners of my sight were cloaked in a misty shroud. I could see Aspen now. His arms were crossed determinedly over his chest despite the fact that he was leaning heavily on his cane. I was sure he was hurting too. The slight shake in his fingers told me I was right. We were both very broken men—in many ways.

"Hours? Minutes? I haven't seen you leave this room before today." Aspen was sharp. I was glad such an intuitive man was protecting my country, but right now a part of me wished he'd been hit over the head with a break as a child and lost a few brain cells.

"The chairs here are quite comfortable," I argued, the last word coming out in a grimace. My senses were starting to come out of the fog, and it suddenly felt like I'd been stabbed in the ribs. I reached a hand under my thick suit jacket. It came back wet and red.

Aspen didn't look too surprised. He didn't make a big deal of it either, and I was grateful. After hobbling to the side of the room where a counter was built into the wall, he wet a washcloth under the sink and tossed it to me. My reflexes were slow, so it just fell with a flop in my lap. My hands were slow and fumbling, but I worked the jacket off eventually to find that something had cut a jagged slice through my shirt and into my chest where blood was spreading like some sort of sickly weed. I undid enough buttons to slide a hand under my shirt and press the rag to the wound. It didn't stop the pain.

Aspen pointed to a little hooked piece of metal that stuck out from America's bed. "Wheel locks."

I nodded. I must have hit it just right. We were silent for a while. Aspen stayed by the far wall, using the counter to keep him balanced. His lips were tight and I knew he was trying to ignore the burning sensation in his leg. I knew that feeling. The same one flared up as an irrationally violent throb in my shoulder sometimes. I didn't dare budge from my place on the cold tiles. They were a pale, milky white, but some drops of my blood stained them now. I was tempted to give a pathetic laugh as my mind reverted to its thoughts when I had first arrived. _We are weak._

My head sunk back against the cushiony edge of America's mattress and I was reminded once again that she was sleeping _here_ , in a too-bright room with heart monitors wheezing and beeping, instead of under the billowy curtains of our canopy bed. She was _still_ sleeping.

"I'm getting scared," I whispered. Maybe my insomnia really was getting to me. I hadn't meant to say that out loud.

Aspen seemed to read my thoughts. His eyes met mine and I was grateful to see straight again. "Me too."

I clenched my jaw. "I-I really thought she'd wake up by now. Every minute she stays like this," My voice acquired a small snap of venom, "like a petrified bug, unmoving, in a spider's web," I breathed heavily and my chest rebelled at the movement. I winced. "Every minute decreases her chances. If she doesn't-"

" _Stop."_ Aspen's voice was steel. "Don't do this to yourself Maxon." His forehead was all knotted together now and I noticed a light sheen of sweat. I wished he would sit down, but who was I reprimand a man for not properly resting his body? Just a hypocrite.

My voice was low. "It's true. I can't ignore the facts."

"And you can't give up hope," He declared. His voice was catching. "Our America is a fighter. She always has been. She'll come back to us—to you. Don't you dare give up on her."

I hung my head and immediately missed the comfort of America's soft sheets. I had ordered the maids to replace the standard papery linens with silk blankets from our bedroom. "I don't know what to do without her. She's not just my wife; she's my queen, my best friend, my partner."

"I know," Aspen said, and I believed him. He understood my desperation. "We're going to get her back." He eased himself off the counter, leaning heavily on his cane, and took slow steps toward me. As soon as he was close enough, he reached out a hand. I clasped it gratefully. "We will fight for her. We will protect her. Okay?"

I gulped back the pressure building in my chest. "Okay."

"After we get some ice for these terrible battle wounds," He murmured with a careful smile. I returned it with my own.

* * *

 **So reviews are pretty great. And by pretty I mean insanely. And by great I mean spectacular ;) Thanks for reading guys! Y'all are the best! Woops... my southern is showing. More updates coming soon! God Bless!  
~SpaceNut**


	3. Chapter 3

"They are making advances, Your Majesty."

I stared at the map that lay before me, large enough to cover the entirety of our grand table. Small red markers flanked the southern end, but now there were more than I remembered. "What do you mean, _advances_?" I questioned an advisor. He had thick gray hair, but it was receding sharply in the shape of an _M_ along his hairline. "They don't even have an army." The room was eerily quiet. "Do they?"

Another man piped up. His name was Philip Mitchell, and he was one of the most outspoken men of the council. "Our spies in the southern region have discovered training camps—more than we anticipated. It would appear that the Loyalists have been running some kind of underground recruiting program targeted towards young men. They are leaving home to join the fight."

This was all news to me. I assumed the information was new, probably being presented for the first time at this meeting, but guilt shot through me. How could I call myself a king? I had ignored the insurgents rising up in my nation, the very ones threatening to kick my family in front of a firing squad. Where has my head been? I knew the answer to that question though, and it only made my chest squeeze uncomfortably with the sound of beeping machines and slow breaths that lingered in my mind. I cleared my throat.

"How many are we estimating?" I looked around the room. Nineteen advisers were seated at my table, ranging in age from twenty-six to seventy-eight. None of them replied, so I turned my eyes back to Mitchell. "How many?"

He didn't look too excited to answer, but he wasn't one to shy away from his duties either. "Six thousand, give or take."

I didn't mean to, but my jaw slackened involuntarily. Six _thousand_? I had been wary when we dealing with a simple ragtag conspiracy. Now I was edging towards fear. Lots of fear. America and I had spent the past twenty years down-scaling our army. It was meant to assure our recently acquired allies in New Asia that there were no lingering threats. The rebels that had once haunted my sleep were virtually unheard of. The money we saved from staying out of war was pumped back into the country, helping to care for those who were struggling through assimilation from lower castes. All was going so well.

I stared back down at the red pegs. They suddenly seemed much more menacing than before. "We do not currently have the defense systems to fight off that kind of army without warning." I announced what they already knew. Someone had to say it. If we knew when an attack was coming, where it would be targeting, how it would be executed—things would be fine. But surprises? We weren't ready for that, not one bit.

A bald, middle-aged man to my left was brave enough to speak. "Officer Leger has called for higher security in Angeles. There are currently an additional one thousand troops being transported to our city alone, along with new rotating guard schedules to throw off any rats watching us." It was meant to be a comfort, but I was sufficiently spooked.

"I want a draft. Now. Not mandatory, but we will increase the work of our recruiting offices nationwide. I want officers in every city and town. I want posters announcing that the nation needs its sharpest to fight." There were a few raised eyebrows at reversing the years of work spent demilitarizing the nation, but no one raised a voice against me. "We will not be unprepared."

"King Maxon," The eldest man in the room turned his eyes on me. He had advised for my father. He had lived twice as many years as me. "Are you sure it is wise to take these aggressive measures so quickly? Perhaps we should first make a larger effort at making peace with the Loyalists before we raise our guns—a conference of some sort. I believe it would be best to spare the lives of as many young Illѐan men as possible."

I frowned. "The Loyalists do not strike me as the sort of people with which we can reason."

"Have you tried?"

I hadn't felt anger in such a long time. I'd forgotten the way it ignited in my lungs, seized my heart, and heated my neck. I did not feel like being questioned. Or doubted. Or judged. What more did these men w _ant_ from me. I was here, wasn't I? I was sitting in a stuffy room, wearing a tailored suit, trying desperately to hear the reports they gave. I had showered. I had shaved. I'd eaten an actual meal for the first time in two weeks. " _Meeting adjourned_." My voice shook through the room, rattling each man in his chair. They whitened like ghosts.

"Your Majesty," The old man's eyes had gone wide, "I did not mean-"

" _Get out_." I tried again. I was seething. I could feel my chest rising with fire as I tried so desperately not to lose my temper, not to spiral out of control. I was on the verge of raging or breaking down.

It didn't take long for the room to empty. They swept up folders and papers in a hurry, gone in a minute flat. I roared, my fists crashing down on the table and tearing the map beneath. I couldn't help myself. I couldn't stand this any longer. As of today, it had been one full month.

" _America!_ " Her name came out raw and loud. What the heck was I doing? I didn't know anymore. I didn't have a clue.

* * *

She found me. I'm not sure if she heard my scream and just waited for me to cool off. Or maybe she'd simply looked everywhere else and narrowed it down to the council room. Whatever the case, Eadlyn slipped through the heavy oak door an hour later with concern on her face. I hadn't moved except to throw my head in my hands.

"Daddy?" She stood in the threshold, unce rtain.

I was mortified at the realization that overtook me. _She was afraid to come in. My daughter was scared of me._ I nearly choked at the thought. I had gone one month without America and already become the monster I hated.

My arms shot out to her. "Come here, baby girl." I'd said it so many times before in the past seventeen years. She was my little princess, my one and only.

She smiled a bit and I could see the relief clearly on her face. _I wasn't going down that road. I am not that man._ She balanced herself gracefully on the arm of my chair, leaning against my shoulder, and pressed a kiss to my forehead. "You okay?"

It felt strange to say considering the circumstances, and I paused for a moment. America was lying in a hospital bed and my own people wanted to dispose of me, but I was still a daddy. "I'm okay."

Eadlyn nodded to herself. "Good." She twirled a piece of hair thoughtfully and I took it as my cue to wait for her to speak. She hadn't just come in her to check up on her old man. "I've come to a conclusion," She declared.

I put a hand on her knee, holding her steady. "What's that, Eady?"

"With the Loyalists gaining force and-"

"How do you know about that?" I cut her off.

She made a face at me. "As future queen, I am informed of such matters."

Right. My baby girl wasn't a baby girl anymore. She was currently preparing to take the throne. I knew this. I was the one training her. At least, I had been.

"Anyways, the selection is already down to the Elite." She was hinting, an expectant look in her eyes, and I quickly picked up on her implications.

"Oh, Eady," I sighed. "I am so sorry…" I was rambling off. I didn't know what to say. My baby girl was talking about marriage. A wedding. Bride and groom and rings and—"Eadlyn, please forgive me," I murmured, pulling her down from the armrest onto my thighs. I tried to hold her to my chest, like I had done so often when she was a child, but she pulled away.

"What are you talking about, daddy?" Her hands rested on my shoulders so she could look me in the eyes. "Forgive you for what?"

I shook my head. I could feel the pressure building behind my eyes that hinted at tears, but I refused to cry now. I was going to be strong for her. "Where have I been? I threw you into a selection you didn't want and left you to fight through it yourself. I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I didn't want you to be forced. It was just a distraction." I was speaking to myself more than her. I didn't even know which of the boys were still at the palace. I had left that world the minute my America was gone. I'd abandoned Eady. "You don't have to do this, sweetie." I grasped her hands. "You can call it all off. Send them home. It's okay. Don't marry someone you don't love."

Eadlyn drew into me, her head on my chest. I ran one hand over her hair, over and over, trying to soothe her. I was disgusted with myself. _Disgusted._ How quickly had I fallen apart when others needed me? How easily had I failed them?

"I'm not being forced, daddy." It was a whisper. My hand froze. "I'm in love, and I think now is the best time anyways with all the dissent brewing."

"The best time for…" I let my voice trail off, not quite believing my thoughts.

"A royal wedding."

* * *

 **Ooooh. Who is it? Who does she love? Haha, more to come! Thanks to everyone reading. I truly enjoy writing for y'all! Drop me a review and guess on the future king! God bless!**

 **~SpaceNut**


	4. Chapter 4

Ahren had rushed home as soon as he could. Unfortunately, that was three weeks after the heart attack. His first two weeks away had been spent honeymooning with Camille on a secluded French Isle, hidden from the press, ignoring all phone calls. The third week was hell for him—at least that was the way he described it to me. They had returned to the French palace only to find that he had a pile of waiting messages. They all bore the same bad news; he was torn apart. The King and Queen insisted he couldn't hop on the first plane home. He had a duty to fulfill. If he was going to skip out on the formalities of a proper wedding to their daughter, he would at least stand in for his coronation as the prince consort. There were pictures to be taken, people to be met, papers to be signed. Ahren was drowning. Camille was a guilty mess. It wasn't how newlyweds were supposed to feel.

Eventually it was too much. Queen Jeannette had prepared a banquet to celebrate the new marriage and Ahren put his foot down, Camille standing firmly behind him. He refused to celebrate with hundreds when he should be mourning. They left that night and showed up the next afternoon on the steps of the palace. A guard had alerted me of the prince's return and I had run to meet my son with an embrace.

* * *

"So Eadlyn tells me the selection is almost over." Ahren's body was flopped in the little plastic chair across from me. He spread out his long limbs. The seat was much too small for him, but he was stretched out- his arms hanging loosely at his sides and almost touching the tiled floor. He wore a sheepish smile on his face. "I guess those boys have really made an impression on her."

I nodded. My thumb was running a circuit up and down America's forearm and I was pretty sure I found the movement more soothing than she did. Assuming she felt it. I had been told by the staff that, in most comatose cases, the patient was still very aware of their surroundings. Their senses hadn't shut down, so they could hear and feel.

"I can't believe our little Eady is going to be a wife," I murmured, then thought to add, "and by choice, too." That elicited a light laugh from Ahren.

We had been sitting together for an hour or so, just enjoying one another's company. Having four children was a blessing, but I cherished one-on-one moments with each of them. They were all so different.

Sensitive wasn't exactly the word I would use to describe Ahren. He wasn't much for crying, even when he was younger. He was a beautiful writer, but a simple speaker, never trying to hold his intelligence over the heads of others. No, sensitive wasn't the right word. He was just passionate. He felt more deeply than others. When someone suffered, he suffered with them. He shared in their joy. He felt pain in their disappointment. He had empathy unlike anyone I'd ever known, and it made me proud.

I looked up form America's pale skin to see Ahren's position had changed. He'd shifted from a relaxed sprawl to a hunched over cage, his hands grasped tightly between his knees. I must have been quite lost in my thoughts to not have noticed.

"Son?" I asked quietly, afraid of disturbing him.

His shoulders shook and he took a moment to compose himself before looking up. His eyes were watered down, but he hadn't let the tears slip out. His lips pressed together. Everything about him looked strained as he desperately tried not to break.

He opened his mouth to speak but I beat him to the punch. "This is _not_ your fault. Do you understand me?" My voice was firm. "I am not letting you blame yourself."

I could tell by the way he shook his head, denying my words, that I'd spoken his mind.

" _You_ know it is. _I_ know it is. The whole blessed country knows!" His voice rose uncharacteristically.

"That's not true."

"Dad, it didn't happen until I left. _As soon as I left."_ He wiped quickly at his eyes before the tears fell, but they were replaced by more. _"_ She would have been fine if I'd stayed. She'd be helping her daughter prepare a wedding. She'd be—"

"Stop!" I didn't mean to yell, but by the way Ahren froze it was clear my voice had been louder than intended. I stood, rounded the bed, and knelt before him. My hands found his knees. "Your mother loves you. It would break her heart to hear such terrible things."

Ahren shook his head hard. "But I did this to her!"

"Heart attacks are much more complicated than that. She was already genetically predisposed, so the chances were much higher. It is a matter of stress, and I would say running a country entails a considerable amount of stress, wouldn't you?"

He gulped, eyes on his hands gripping one another. "Yeah."

"And if anyone could have stopped this, it would have been me, Son." I squeezed his knee, partly to comfort him, but mostly because I felt the weight of my words. I knew her history. The health risks. The work load. All that I'd asked of her. Too much.

Ahren looked up then. "Are you kidding me?" I recoiled at the bite in his words. "You don't get to blame yourself. If I don't, you sure as hell don't!"

"Language, Ahren." I muttered out of habit.

He rolled his eyes. "Dad, if you haven't noticed, I'm not five anymore."

He was right, and I felt an ache at the realization. My first boy was married. He was a _husband_. He was responsible for his own people, his own country. He no longer relied on me. "I suppose so." It came out in a whisper.

Ahren furrowed his eyebrows. "What is it?"

I couldn't help my bittersweet smile, looking at the man in front of me. How had I never noticed when his chubby cheeks disappeared, replaced by a sturdy jaw? "Nothing. You've just grown up on me more quickly than I would have liked."

He gripped my hand reassuringly, offering an easy smile. "You did good, Dad. I turned out alright."

"Better than alright." With that, I rose to my feet before I could tear up. My knees were burning from squatting before him for so long. The pain from my fall a couple weeks ago still lingered. I stood and backed up to sit on America's bed, not wanting to go too far away.

* * *

I'd fallen asleep there once Ahren had left to check on Camille. The bed was much too big for America's small frame, so I was able lay at her feet. It was nice in a way, almost like we were sharing our bed once again. Except we weren't. If we were, she'd be in my arms. My head would be resting over hers. My hands felt so bare. Empty.

I dreamt for the first time in a long time.

 _I was on the roof of the palace. It was winter, I could tell by the Christmas lights that glowed on the palace grounds far beneath me. And the cool air hinted at the season, too. I pulled on a pair of gloves from my coat pocket._

 _It was getting dark, but the lost sunlight only made the distant bulbs shine beautifully brighter. If I could guess what heaven looked like, I'd imagine something like this. I hummed one of the old carols they'd taught me as part of a cultural history class when I'd been training as a young prince. The moment felt so peaceful._

 _I heard a creak behind me and turned to see red locks rising from the roof hatch, quickly accompanied by an soft smile. She didn't speak until she was pressed up behind me, her small arms around my middle and her nose pressing into the warmth of my coat._

 _"Merry Christmas, my King."_

 _I turned to see her breaths were turning into little white puffs of air. I frowned. She must be cold. She wore a sweater and jeans. Oh, how I'd missed seeing her in jeans. The queen position rather limited her wardrobe choices. There was a knit cap pulled over her ears. Her nose was already pink, so I leaned down and kissed it. That elicited a giggle._

 _"You'll catch a cold out here." I warned, my lips still brushing her nose. It only made her laugh more._

 _"I'm willing to take that risk." Her hands were covered in small red mittens, so when she lifted them to frame my face, I only felt the slick fabric. I much preferred her skin._

 _I pushed closer to her, grateful for another warm body. "But it's my duty to keep you safe, Your Royal Highness."_

 _Her lips found mine. Despite the cold, she tasted of warmth, like I was kissing a toasty fire. I didn't mind one bit. She broke away sooner than I liked. I frowned at the lack of lips, but quickly brightened when I saw the giddy look on her face._

 _"Maxon!" Her red mittens were raised to the sky. "Look! It's snowing!"_

 _Sure enough, I could see the proof in her hair. Little specks of white mingled with the current of red waves. She looked like a fairy. An angel. Maybe I was right. Maybe this really was what heaven looked like._

"Maxon!"

I groaned, clinging desperately to the image of America spinning in snow flurries. Someone was gripping my arm tightly, shaking my body. The image disappeared and I had half a mind to cane whoever stole that moment from me. It was all I had now.

"Maxon!" The voice repeated and I willed my eyes open, my ears filling with recognition. My mind came back quickly from its blissful daze and I realized a wide-eyed Aspen, gun cocked in one hand, was not a good thing to wake up to. Something bad was happening.

I was on my feet so fast I had to fight off whiplash. "What? What's wrong?" My eyes searched the room for a hint, but there was nothing new. That's when I heard the sirens. _Sirens?_ I'd almost forgotten they existed. It was a foreign sound now. That terrified me to the core.

"The safe room!" I blurted, willing my mind to grind some gears. "We need to go! We need to—" I had turned to look at America's still body and realization dawned on me. Aspen's wild eyes confirmed my fears. I felt my heart sinking. My thoughts were drowning in desperation. My voice was broken and I was surprised Aspen even heard me when I whispered, "We can't leave, can we?"

He shook his head, already propping one of the chairs under the door.

We were stuck. I couldn't help the dark thought that pounced: America didn't need to wake up if we were all going to die here anyway.

* * *

 **Dun dun DUN! (Cue the dramatic drum roll). So I apologize for the cliffy, but let's be honest, we needed some action y'all. Thank you so much for reading! Drop a review? Pretty please? I love you guys a bushel! God bless.**

 **~SpaceNut**


	5. Chapter 5

"The chair—give me the chair." Aspen's voice is low and unwavering. This is his element. In a strange way, Aspen is most comfortable in high-stress situations.

My palms brace against the back of the chair and I push. It glides across the slick tiles and Aspen's hands snatch it up, positioning it under the door handle.

"Fabric. I need a shirt or a blanket-" I cut him off by throwing one of the extra bed sheets his way. He carefully tucks it into the crack between the wall and the top of the door. "If anyone comes running by, at least they won't have a perfect view of the nation's monarchs."

I nod. My mind is racing. "The kids!" And then I'm irrationally throwing myself at the door, trying to pry the chair away. They've only gone through drills. They've never experienced a raid, or whatever this is. I need to _find_ them. I need to keep them _safe_. "I need to get them to a safe room!"

Aspen's pull on my shoulders is firm and his voice is that of a soldier. "You are helping no one if you leave this room. Every soul in this palace is dedicated to protecting your family."

I feel like a caged animal. My eyes search wildly around the room as if there was a button I could press, a lever I could pull, that would fix this mess.

Aspen must read the desperate look in my eyes. His grip tightens. " _Maxon."_ His tone demands me to meet his gaze. " _The best thing you can do right now is stay calm and wait_."

I don't know how long it takes, but eventually the tension in my shoulders releases. I hadn't realized my muscles were so coiled. I breathe, take a step back, and let my pulse even. Aspen's eyes continue to study me warily, but his hold relents.

"I'm sorry," I mutter, to him or to myself I'm not sure. "I just—" My voice is catching. I'm not panicking anymore, but the worry won't leave. "They… I can't…"

"They are your children and it is a natural instinct to do everything in your power to protect them. I understand, Maxon. And I'm sorry that stupid things like crowns make it more difficult, but right now we need to play things by the rules so a minimal amount of blood is spilled." There's a well-hidden pain in his eyes and I know what he's thinking. He should have a little one to run after right now. There should be a small face in his mind that he's dying to reach, but fate is cruel and Aspen has never heard the words 'daddy' directed towards him. Suddenly, my outburst feels so selfish.

Now is really not the time for a heart-to-heart, so I push the thoughts of little toes and pink blankets from my mind. We need strategy. We need tact.

"The loyalists. It must be them. But I thought we'd confirmed they were weeks away from even _reaching_ Angeles, let alone _attacking_." I shake my head, walking backwards until my legs meet America's bed where I slump down. "What does this mean? What feel through the cracks?"

Aspen is hesitant to step away from doors, as if he would be leaving his post. He compromises by turning his body sideways so he can have a clear view of the entrance and me, whichever needs his attention in the moment. "I can't imagine anyone else invading the palace." He seems to be running through scenarios. "It could always be a false alarm. We haven't heard any gun shots yet and—"

As if on cue, a faint bang echoes and I cringe. It's followed by two more and I find myself wondering how much damage is really being done. The palace is enormous. It's possible we simply aren't hearing much of the fight.

Aspen waits silently for a moment, his lips pressed together. "Or not." He mutters to himself. "My men have been preparing for an attack though, Your Majesty. We should be perfectly capable of fighting off any forces they throw at us."

I can't help glaring at him. "Don't call me 'Your Majesty' at a time like this." He's reporting, giving me data as if we were in a strategy meeting, and the title feel back into his mouth.

"Sorry," He shakes his head. "Habits."

"What could they possibly hope to gain with a raid? Even if our scouts were wrong about their position, we couldn't be too far off about their capabilities." The words are meant to soothe me. I'm talking myself out of the nightmares running through my head.

"A threat." Aspen sounds so sure of himself. "They want us to cower, to know fear. They want Illѐa to see them as a legitimate power instead of farm boys with guns." He scratches his temple. "It's a much more logical tactic than you'd think. They will lose men in this fight, but they will also gain support if they can inflict any visible damage. Those who were on the fence about joining will be convinced there's a real battle to wage."

I scowl. "Well they won't leave us cowering, so their little mission is a failure."

I was so, _so_ wrong.

* * *

The clock always seems to move sluggishly in America's infirmary room, and the last hour is no exception, ticking by exceedingly slow. I am watching the second hand. My heartbeat lines up with the rhythm. My finger traces the alphabet on the back of America's hand absentmindedly.

Aspen hasn't left the door. He's slumped against it now. He wouldn't sit, claiming he needed to be ready at any possible second, but the old ache in his leg must be acting up because he's leaning the majority of his weight on the door.

It seems like a terrible thing, a sadistic thing, to be bored during a fatal attack, but I am. There are bodies falling outside this door. Blood is being lost. Sacrifices are being made. Yet I am sitting on silk sheets with my eyes following the lost time. I can't stand this—this feeling of stagnancy. I am useless in this room. Aspen was right, though. My duty right now is to not get killed, and so far I've done a good job. That fact doesn't make my idleness hurt any less.

I should never wish for trouble, though. It seems to have a habit of finding me.

There's a jolt on the other side of the door, sending Aspen to his feet with an aimed firearm in half a second. _Someone is trying to open the door._ I can feel my breath hitch with the realization, but I will it into submission. _Stay calm. Fight._ After another try at the door handle, they seem to have given up. But then the whole door shakes with what can only be the weight of a thrusted body.

Aspen takes two steps back, his knees slightly bent. I can't sit still any longer. I search for a weapon in the cabinets, but the best I can find is an empty syringe.

Aspen's voice is a harsh whisper. " _Out of the way, Maxon._ "

I set my jaw and meet his low tone with my own. "This is my fight, too."

He doesn't move his eyes from the door, but the sharpness of his voice is just as cutting as any glare. " _Get low, out of range. Now is not the time to be a hero."_ He pauses. " _I'm not arguing with you over this."_

Another quaking smash against the door.

"Today is not the day to add four orphans to the world." This comment shuts me up. There's nothing left to say, so I sink to my knees beside America's bed knowing that if I die, I want to be next to her.

Whoever is on the other side of the door seems to have given up on the body-slam method. This might be reassuring if they weren't shooting at the lock now. Aspen is cursing under his breath.

They must know we are here, in this room, or they wouldn't be trying so hard.

I take one long look at America's face. It's relaxed, and despite the death threat ten feet away, I find peace in seeing her. I've had so much in this life—so much more love than I ever deserved. If this is it, I can't complain. I fold my fingers around America's as the lock gives out and a figure kicks back the door.

It's a young man, probably only twenty years-old. He is quick to search room, finding me by the bedside. The pistol in his hand swings up to fire. He's wearing black from head to toe, but I can see his eyes. They're blue. And then they're gone.

Aspen sent two bullets into his chest. Perfect aim. The man falls face-forward, crumpling first to his knees, then his chest. Aspen retrieves the gun from his fingers, then swings the door shut. He repositions the chair as a barricade.

I release my grip on America's hand and walk to Aspen's side, taking the pistol. It's cold in my grip.

We are quiet. It's not easy to strike up a conversation with a dead body so near. I clear my throat though and murmur, "thank you." Aspen just nods. His eyes look glassy.

Killing people is a strange thing. It makes you realize just how fragile life is—how easy it is to take and lose. Aspen knows this lesson well, but so do I. He's done a lot of taking. Occupational hazard, I suppose. I've done a lot of losing.

* * *

Another half hour passes before we hear voices. They congregate outside the door and fear splits through me like a slick knife in butter. _We could take one, but how many are there?_ Adrenaline kicks in and I fall into a practiced stance. I've trained.

I stagger my feet, tilt the pistol to align the sights, and press my thumb to the steel barrel. I won't go down without a fight.

The tension breaks when one of the muffled voices shouts, "King Maxon?"

I'm still holding the gun when I press my hands to my face. I can feel the frigid metal on my cheek. "Thank God," I murmur.

Aspen releases a deep breath. Our eyes meet. We did okay. We lived.

Someone knocks, and though I can't imagine any loyalist would be crazy enough to actually request entrance before attempting murderous treason, Aspen keep his gun raised.

"Just in case," He assures me. I nod as he pulls back the chair and confronts the hallway.

We are met by two advisers, a nurse, and a couple guards. Their eyes search us for any signs of damage. I can see the slumped body of the man behind them. The attack is over.

My eyes flit to Aspen's yet again and I walk close enough to exchange words privately. "Go home. See Lucy. She must be worried out of her mind." He looks like he is going to retaliate, so I speak before he can argue. "You did your job. Now it's time for me to do mine." My hand finds his shoulder. "You have fulfilled your duty, Commander."

One side of his lips quirk up. "As you wish, Your Majesty." And he slips out the door.

I look to the advisers next. "I want numbers—fatalities and wounded. We need to find out where they entered and what their target was. If there was any-"

"Your Majesty," One guard interrupts.

I raise an eyebrow.

He bows. "My apologies, but there is a certain pressing matter I believe you may wish to attend to first."

The words send a shock through me and I stumble. "The kids—" And I'm falling back into my panic attack from before, trying to rush out the door even if I don't know where I'm going. "Where? Did they make it? The safe room…" I'm in the hallway by the time it occurs to me not to leave America alone. My feet freeze, conflicted.

The same guard speaks up again. "The princes and princess all survived unscathed and were delivered to the royal safe room. They are waiting for you in your office as we speak." He pauses, takes a second to clear his throat, and continues. "I'm afraid the remaining young men of the selection were not so lucky.

* * *

 **Ah! Don't hate me just yet! Hope you are all having a fantastic summer and thank you so much for taking time to read my fanfic! You guys are seriously amazing. You're reviews absolutely make my day! God bless!**

 **~SpaceNut**


	6. Chapter 6

I feel like I'm walking into a morgue when I step through the heavy oak doors of my office. It's usually a quiet place, set aside for business and long hours of paperwork—but this a different kind of silence. And it's so much worse.

I involuntarily take a mental headcount despite having been previously promised that the kids were all unharmed. Four. I'm reassured by the absence of blood on their bodies and decide to be grateful, even if their expressions are far from relaxed.

There is a large leather couch that faces my desk, and Kaden has taken residence on the floor in front of it, his knees tucked tightly against his chest. He seems lost in the task of picking at loose threads in the carpet, his eyes a bit glazed.

Ahren and Osten were the ones that actually claimed the couch. Ahren appears to be the most composed of the group, with a posture trained into perfection and one arm wrapped over a sniffling Osten's shoulders.

But if Ahren is the most unperturbed, Eadlyn is clearly the least. Her back is to me, so all I can see is the shake of her shoulders as her hands clutch madly at the curtains. I can hear her sobs. I can see the wrinkles in her dress that will only come out with hours under an iron. I know this pain.

They hear the squeak of the door hinge and suddenly those four heads are directed at me. I have so much to say, but Osten beats me to the punch.

"Dad!" He's leaping from the couch, crossing the room, and wrapping his arms around my hips. "You're safe! We didn't know…" He lets his voice trail off, not wanting to finish the sentence.

I'm already setting my jaw, feeling the pressure of potential tears in my eyes, and realizing that this is not good. I can't possibly be on the verge of tears so quickly. I was supposed to be strong for them.

My knees bend to the floor and I'm eye-level with him. My fingers gently frame his face, to comfort him with a fatherly touch, to comfort me with the physical sign that he is _here_. He has not been taken from me. "It's okay." My words are a murmur. "You're safe. I'm safe. It's okay."

Osten buries his head in my chest. My hand naturally cradles his head against me. Sometimes I forget that he's still so young.

My eyes look over the head of curls and catch Ahren's. There's a question in his gaze and I answer before he asks. "I was with mom. She's safe too. Mary is with her now."

Ahren gives one solid nod before settling himself back into the couch pillows with relief. I watch his eyes close. He exhales slowly and carefully.

Kaden is next. I'm consciously saving Eadlyn for last. She is going to need so much more than a kiss on the forehead.

When Kaden stands, I'm struck by how old he looks. His lip does not quiver and his hands hold steady. "What happened?"

Osten pulls away, sitting beside me on the carpet. I clear my throat. My boys look at me, leaving only Eadlyn turned away. She has yet to abandon her position by the window.

"The Loyalists." I let the words settle before continuing. "It was a raid. We aren't sure how they got in, but there's a team working on it now. It seems they were trying to make a threat, but why-"

" _It was a statement_!" They are Eadlyn's first words since I arrived, and I'm struck by the hoarse rawness of her voice. "It was a message for me, dad. It's because of _me_." She has whipped around from the curtains to face me.

There's a shock that comes in seeing a familiar person in a different light, like a long-lost friend returning after many years or a picture of a loved one from long ago. This is an Eadlyn I've never seen. There are only pieces of her left.

She falls— collapses like her knees simply can't bear her weight anymore. Her dress pools in a crinkled heap around her and she bunches her hands into the silky, sea foam green fabric, using it as a makeshift tissue. The wails that she releases remind me of an animal that's just been struck in a hunt. Bleeding out. Forced to feel the slow pain. Dying.

I don't know how many times my heart can break, but it seems to be a recurring theme as of late.

Ahren is first to react. Standing from the couch and reaching a protective arm around Osten, he offers me a tightlipped smile. "We should get a little food in our stomachs," He murmurs. "C'mon, we can raid the kitchens. I'll bet there's still some leftover éclairs from yesterday." He motions for Kaden to follow and my boys leave, leaning on each other.

I gulp. They are all so strong. Something, somewhere, went right, because my four babies have grown up into fighters. Like their mother.

Eadlyn's sobs are muffled by her dress and hands and hair. She's caved into herself, a little ball of shimmering cloth, a tilted tiara, a fallen princess. I push myself from the chair and ease towards her with soft steps before wilting to the ground next to her, looping my arms around bent knees. I wait as her cries slowly fade into quiet hiccups. All too familiar with grief, I know how sometimes it just needs to be felt. Alone.

Her arms slide away, breaking her cocoon, and I can see her blotchy cheeks. She has unashamedly cried her heart out. It's obvious by the way she squeezes her eyes tight, but nothing falls. She has run out of tears. Her breath comes in soft gasps.

I know this kind of crying. I know how it burns in your chest with a rising pressure that suffocates your lungs and strangles every breath. I know how your face burns from the constant rubbing away of tears until you just let them flood. They tickle on the way down. I can recognize heartbreak when I see it.

"He's gone." She whispers through one of her gasps. Her lips are shaking.

I slide closer so that our shoulders touch. My voice is soft. "Who?"

She squeezes her lips together so tight I can imagine the pain of her teeth pressing into the insides of her mouth. When she finally releases them, her eyes stay shut. Her mouth opens to speak, but nothing comes out. Just strangled breath being sucked in between her teeth.

My arm falls around her, my face nesting into her hair where I press a kiss. "Eady," I soothe, "It's okay. Everything's going to be okay. I've got you, Eady. You're safe. It's going to be okay…" I repeat the mantra. I know I shouldn't be making such promises. I haven't looked into my wife's eyes in two months. How can I tell Eadlyn that I'll fix a rebel attack? And yet—I can't stop the words. For my baby girl. I'll make things right for my baby girl.

Eadlyn's whole body shutters suddenly and a word falls from her lips so soft it's like a wisp of wind. " _Kile._ " And then the wails are back, thundering in a resurrected hurricane. I whisper her the comforting words, run a hand consolingly over her forearm, rocking us back and forth, but the desperate, choking cries don't cease.

She's jerking her head. " _No, no, no…_ " I kiss her forehead this time. " _I told him. Only yesterday. We had- finally- NO!"_

I stop rocking and hold her at arm's length. Her dress is discolored from the tears now. With my thumbs I brush away the damp hair clinging to her cheeks. "He was the one?"

Her frantic nod is the only answer needed.

* * *

"So there's a theory that since the brain is still functioning in a comatose patient, he or she can comprehend what they hear and feel, they just can't respond." I wait, eying America's prone body resting beside me, but as usual, nothing happens. I sigh. "It's a good theory." I whisper to her, turning my head so that my nose is only inches from her cheek. She still smells like a subtle mix of lemon and honey.

I want to reach out and touch her. Run my hands up her arms. Twist a finger through her red locks. Pull her close, with her head on my chest, feeling the exhale of her breaths. But how can I when I know she won't hold me back? Her thumb running over my wrist. A chaste kiss on the forehead that lingers longer than she meant it to. Tugging back the collar of my shirt until the casualty from so long ago is revealed on my shoulder, and dabs her lips against the wound, whispering "mine" sweetly against my skin, like her touch alone can heal.

 _Nothing._

No movement. No stirring. Her fingers don't even twitch.

Desperation stirs inside me and I let my head droop the small distance needed for me to rest against the crook of her neck. "America," I plead, "Come back."

 _Nothing._

" _Please_." It's a beg, but I don't have any shame. Not now. Not after going so long, through so much, without her.

 _Nothing._

I wonder, if she can hear, can she feel the tears on her neck, too?

"I don't know what to do anymore. Eadlyn—" I actually laugh, but it's filled with my seeping sadness. Everything seems to be tinged gray. "Eady found love, Ames. She fell in love. And now he's gone and I have to find him and bring him back and I don't know how."

My lips are trembling and I wish she would still them with a soft kiss. Then she would laugh with that fiery light in her eyes, telling me that I worry too much. Telling me that we can get through anything together.

"And we were attacked. The palace was infiltrated and I couldn't protect our children, Ames." I nestle further into her skin, the tears coming harder. "I failed. I had to trust someone else to care for them. That's not what a father does."

She would put a hand on each of my cheeks, brushing away the tears with the pads of her thumbs. The edges of her eyes would crinkle as she kissed the tip of my nose and told me that I couldn't blame myself for the actions of others, that we were all safe and that was what mattered.

I draped an arm over her blanketed waist, tucking it around her side. "Come back." My exhale was shaky against her neck. " _Come home_."

 _Nothing._

* * *

 ** _So my computer had an emotional breakdown, but we are back in business! Thank you so much to everyone that has been reviewing and encouraging me to keep writing! You guys are inspiring! Are you feeling the Maxamerica? I am_ feeling it _, even if it's a bit one-sided. Be patient, young grasshoppers. "The flower that blooms in adversity is the rarest and most beautiful of all." (Yes, I just slapped a Mulan quote in there. It happens.) Let me know what you think! Read on! And drop me a review lovelies! ;) God bless!_**

 ** _~SpaceNut_**


	7. Chapter 7

I wake up to the fleeting sensation of soft fingers fluttering over my chest, like a faint breeze. Like a ghost. My mind is chasing after the touch, but it's retreating into a fog. I can't hold it much longer— the gentle warmth of her hands. It's evaporating, but I fight to maintain whatever grip I have on this moment.

My eyes open to search for her. _Big mistake._

The only thing keeping my chest warm is a white cotton shirt. America's fingers rest motionless against her sides, right where they were when I drifted into dreams of better days. I'd give anything for those hands to ball up in fists and sock me in the jaw. Anything for her foot to kick me off the bed. I don't care what she does with the movement, but the eerie stillness is driving me mad. Anything but this seemingly empty shell.

America's nurses know they need not bother to check in on her during the night. I'm always there. But by eight o'clock, the first uniformed staff member will be knocking softly on the door. They adjust her position to prevent bedsores. I've been warned repeatedly about the dangers of anoxia: the suffocation of a patient caused by lack of oxygen, the concern that led surgeons to make a small incision in America's trachea in an operation known as a tracheostomy, and a term I'd never heard of two months ago. Recent developments have led me to learn more medical terms than I'd ever cared to know. The nurses move America's limbs through daily exercises to prevent her muscles from degenerating and massage her skin to avoid blood clotting. They pump nutrition into her bloodstream through an IV. A feeding tube had been suggested, but I refused. She was still America, still my Queen, and I couldn't stand the thought of her looking so feeble with a tube down her throat.

The clock on the wall tells me the nurse will arrive in fifteen minutes. I've overslept. The dream— it's so hard to wake up when the haunt of reality is crouched, waiting, on the cusp of morning.

And yet I can hardly sleep.

I don't like being in the room with the nurses. They are all kind; my remaining logic reassures me of it. However, that knowledgde doesn't stop me from feeling like America is a lab rat under a microscope. It's all so dehumanizing. I made the mistake of staying once, not wanting to leave her after a particularly lonesome and sleepless night. I saw them lift her arms, one at a time, rotating them slowly in artificial exercise. The tube spitting proteins into her wrist as a woman hung a new plastic bag on a metal hook. The rising angle of her bed to prevent fluids from pooling in her lungs.

 _Oh God._ I shake involuntarily. It hurt, because she couldn't do any of it herself. It hurt to think she might not come back.

Since then, I make a point of leaving when the nurses arrive. For my sake and theirs.

I use the remaining fifteen minutes of privacy to recline against pillows that smell like disinfectant.

When the door opens, I furrow my brow. I'm not greeted by the pressed blue and white dress of a palace nurse, but a pearly lab coat. My head physician, Dr. Hendrix, enters. He took over after Dr. Ashlar retired. His smile is friendly and his bow professional.

I try to turn the edge of my grimace into a grin. I'm not really sure if it works, and I'm not really sure if I care.

"Thought I might find you here, Your Majesty," He sits in the seat next to the bed, the seat closest to me. I garner enough effort to prop my back against the bed's steel headboard.

"Lucky guess." My sarcasm has become more frequent recently. Some sort of coping mechanism, I'm told.

Dr. Hendrix's smile twitches. He clears his throat. "If you have the time, I think we should chat. I won't keep you long."

I don't want to talk. I don't want him to tell me about more procedures and risks and probabilities. I just want my dreams to come back, and stay. But a painful itch in my brain murmurs nonsense like 'kingly duty' and 'responsibility'. I stifle my retaliations, like slapping a hand over a spurting fountain, and nod for him to continue.

"As I'm sure you are aware, Her Majesty Queen America has been comatose for sixty-five days."

The words make me twitch.

His voice, all business, dips a bit lower as he bows his head. "My deepest sympathies, Your Majesty. Sincerely, this is a most…" His gaze flickers to the floor, "A most unfortunate turn of events. My team and I are doing everything within our abilities to provide the utmost care."

I nod again, just nod, because I don't think he can feel the emptiness I'm feeling at the words.

"With that said, I must be honest with you and present you with all available options."

This actually earns a reaction from me. "Options?"

Dr. Hendrix has blue eyes rimmed by the small wrinkles that come naturally with being in his mid-sixties. They tighten as he speaks. "Yes. After such a prolonged period of unconsciousness, it is suggested to reconsider our treatment." He pauses, letting the words settle.

I know where this is going. I've been anticipating it for weeks, and yet I can feel my body revolting. The air in my chest feels trapped. My muscles seize up involuntarily, everything is tense like cement was poured through my veins. I've gone as stiff as America. Only the comparison makes me flinch.

I have to swallow twice before words will come. My tongue had gone too dry to work. "Proceed."

Regret is already filling his blue eyes and I can't take it. I bend my knees so I can rest my elbows on them, my face falling unceremoniously into my hands. My neck is too tired to hold up my head. I want to collapse back into the bed, but he's still here with more words I don't want to hear, and I'm trying to maintain some boundary of professionalism (though it keeps fading farther and farther away).

"Years of studies in the past have shown us that patients can survive for decades in a comatose state—still completely alive, but never actually breaching into consciousness. In these cases, it is often left to the patient's family to decide on a course of action. They consider if it's better for the patient to continue living in a vegetative state or to let them go." Dr. Hendrix has been staring purposefully at a spot on the wall behind me, but now his eyes drift back to mine to clarify. "I'm not saying that one choice is better than the other. That's not my place. However, it is my job to make all possibilities known. That's what I'm doing, Your Majesty. That's all. I just need to tell you all of your options so you can make an informed decision." His hands are folded neatly in his lap over his finely ironed slacks. Waiting.

I know I'm supposed to say something. Even if it's not a final decision on the matter, he needs confirmation that I've registered his words. But I have _nothing. Nothing._ Just the shake of my hands pressed over my eyes. I try holding my breath, but my pulse is zipping so fast that I'm sucking for air again in seconds.

I can see Dr. Hendrix's look of alarm through my fingers, but choose to ignore it. The shaking is getting worse and I wonder if it's exaggerated by my insomnia. Maybe dehydration is making it worse, because now that I think about it, I don't remember the last time I drank water. The only liquid I've consumed in the past twenty-four hours was a mug of black coffee to keep me from slumping over during a meeting. Or perhaps my blood sugar has dropped too low, because nothing the maids have brought me on silver platters has appealed to my revolting stomach lately. I don't know. I just feel the shaking, _shaking_ , as it enraptures my arms, too. I wrap them around me in the hopes that it will stop.

Dr. Hendrix is rising from his chair. "Your Majesty?"

But it doesn't cease. I can feel the cold quivers coursing uncontrollably through my shoulder blades, like I was dumped into an icy ocean with a brick tied around my feet. It's seeping into my blood, taking over.

 _I don't know. I don't know. I don't know._

My breath is coming faster, like the air I inhale never quite reaches my lungs so I have to gasp for another gulp. It never fills me up, though. Each one is too shallow. Not enough.

Then there are hands on my shoulders, but they are faint and a sense of déjà vu grips me drowsily. _Where was I? This morning? There were feathery fingers radiating warmth. I thought… America…_

There's a wild dizziness thumping behind my eyes, making it hard to keep my thoughts from drifting. They break up before I can put them together.

 _America's soft fingers…_

Thump.

 _Options? Yes, options._

Thump.

 _Collapsing._ _Shaking. Air._

Thump.

And then the dream is coming back, the one I lost to the foggy tendrils of morning memory. I can see it so much clearer now as the haze fades away, or fades in. I'm not really sure, but she's here now, and smiling, and it doesn't seem to matter either way when she looks at me like that. I'm lying back against the pillows, but this time they smile like fabric softener instead of cleaning supplies. This time, the sheets are a creamy beige like the ones in my room. America's leaning over me, her red curls falling like curtains from her face and around my own. One lock is unruly, flopping over my nose, and she's laughing as she drags it away and brushes my cheek nimbly.

"Good morning," She half-sings. Her curls tickle the sides of my face and the light breaking between them casts a sleepy shadow over her features. Or maybe I'm just not awake yet.

"It is, isn't it?" My thumb finds her cheek. "A very good morning, indeed." I wrap my free hand around her waist, pulling her against me. She slumps her head to my chest and when she hair falls like a sheet over my face, I comb it back with my fingers.

She hums. I can feel the song vibrating against me.

"I've missed you," I whisper.

America turns her head, resting her chin on my sternum so I have perfect view of her scrunched-up nose. "Missed me?" She laughs playfully, the confusion melting away. "Where did I go?"

I frown, because I don't know. I can't remember. But there's a need for her to stay. There's a niggling fear that if I don't hold onto her now, she will float away.

America ignores the concern and lays her head back down so I only see the crown of her hair. I place a lingering kiss there. It's perfectly innocent, but feels much more intimate. Like every touch must be more cherished than normal.

Her hands, once folded into the sheets on either side of me, rise to my chest. Her fingers dance, up to my shoulders then down to my ribs and trailing to my arms. Delicate fingers…

Tracing.

Trolling.

Traipsing.

* * *

For I minute, I honestly believe the dream could be real, because the pillows _do_ smell like fabric softener and the sheets _are_ that familiar tint of tan. But the lack of warmth in the bed is quickly apparent. I snap to reality. The headache pulsing near the surface of my mind is a brutal wake-up call, but it doesn't take me long to recognize the figure sifting through papers and standing at the foot of my bed.

"Dr. Hendrix?"

"Ah," He smiles, looking up from the work with relief. "It is a pleasure to see you awake, Your Majesty. I'm afraid our last meeting ended rather unfavorably." There's a spark of humor in his eyes, but also a straining sadness.

I squint. "Would you be so kind as to remind me?" I remember our talk in America's infirmary room—a bit _too well,_ actually— but then it fades into a fuzzy blur. The headache certainly doesn't help things.

"Of course." He shuffles his papers together neatly and taps them twice on the frame of my bed to align them. "I'm afraid our discussion put you in a state of shock and you suffered from a panic attack, Your Majesty. There was no lasting harm done, although you should take some time to recuperate. You may experience some nausea or head pain, but it will only be temporary."

"Head pain," I nod, then wince at the jolting. It feels like my brain is tied to a tetherball pole, and I just gave it a firm whack. "I can confirm that symptom."

The doctor walks to a table on the side of the room, but my drooping eyes are too lazy to follow him. It's not until he appears beside me with a glass of water that I realize he was retrieving pills. "Just two for now," He holds them out in his palm. "You can have another dose in four hours. Hopefully, it will subside completely after the second round."

I gratefully accept the pills in my own hands and throw them back with a gulp of the water, willing the relief to be instant. It isn't.

The doctor lingers. His cheerful demeanor seems weighted down. "I would like to apologize, Your Majesty." He clears his throat with a nervous cough. "I did not mean to upset you so when we spoke earlier. I understand that this is not an easy time for you, and I by no means intend to add any burdens."

 _Not an easy time_. I want to snort. Yeah, I'd say things have been a bit trying lately. Dr. Hendrix is not the cause of the ongoing avalanche that is my life, though, so I try to give the most kingly nod I can muster. "I greatly appreciate your concern. You needn't feel any responsibility for the," I search for a word, but decide to lazily use what he's already spoken, "the burdens occurring as of late."

The poor man looks so relieved. I wish it was that easy to please the rest of Illѐa. This whole king job would be much less stressful.

"Yes, well then," He's giving a bobbing bow as he clears away his things. "I will leave you to rest. Do not hesitate to send for me, and remember, two more pills in four hours." And then he's slipping out the door and leaving me alone in the enormous king's chambers, in the too-big bed that feels blaringly empty as I stretch my arm over America's empty spot and finger the fabric of the comforter she picked out.

It isn't ten minutes before there's a knock on the door, and I wonder if Dr. Hendrix left something behind.

"Come in!" I call loudly enough to be heard on the other side of the thick door. I sit up against a layered stack of pillows, grateful that the beating in my head has started to fade.

Instead of Doctor Hendrix's lab coat, I'm met with Aspen's tailored uniform. I'm alert quicker than I thought possible, already running through scenarios before words can even come.

"Have you-"

"Yes," He cuts me off, but I really don't care. His words are more important than mine right now. "We found them. They're on a small base near a farming town in Northern Zuni. Our scouts located the camp nearly four hours ago and are currently identifying soft spots that will be our best targets for an infiltration when we send a rescue mission. The base is approximately seven hours away by car, only one by jet. We believe a ground operation would best suit the needs of the mission, considering the risk we put on any possible explosives harming the hostages."  
I don't interrupt because every word is a spark of hope, and I've been running low on that particular virtue lately. When Aspen's done, I'm grinning.

"Yes, yes whatever you need. Just say the word, just ask. Okay?" He nods. "Thank you," I tell him. I'm repeating the words because it feels like the only good news I've heard in years. It feels like rain in a hopeless drought. "Thank you, thank you, _thank you…"_

* * *

 **Chapter update! Yay! So this takes place about a week after the last chapter, just to give you all a better perspective. Also, for those curious, Zuni is supposedly around where New Mexico and Arizona are located (or at least that's what the Selection Wiki page told me). Hey, guess what? This is the longest chapter so far! Hip hip horray for staying up late before my first day back to classes to post this bad boy. ;) Please drop me a review, because you guys are seriously sunshine and dandelions and all that happy stuff that makes me smile. God bless! And for all you students out there starting up again like me, have a great year!**

 **~SpaceNut**


	8. Chapter 8

It has been sixty-six days since America's heart attack, forty-five since Ahren came home, eight since the Selected were kidnapped, and one since my lovely little panic attack. So I decide it's high time I called a certain son into my office for a man-to-man chat.

Ahren's first words when he walks through the door are "Any progress?"

I almost want to smile, because yes, things are actually _happening_. We are going to save someone. I have the chance to keep six boys from death or torture or whatever sort of hell the Loyalists are concocting, and there is so much hope in this after spending months powerless.

"The scout teams have identified two chinks in their armor— one break in the guard shifts that we can manipulate quite easily and an unmonitored section of woods nearby that can be used for cover."

Ahren beams. "That's fantastic. How soon can we send in our men?"

"Within the next week. Two more days if all goes according to plan. You know I want those boys safe as soon as possible, but we need to cement all the details and plan for possible malfunctions to ensure success of the rescue mission. Otherwise, we'll be running in their blind, and get more men killed than we already have."

"This is great news." Ahren is nodding, taking the seat on the opposite side of my desk. "I want to be involved however I can: on call in the command center or sending off the team or—"

"Actually," I interrupt, "That's what I wanted to speak with you about." He looks at me curiously, but I continue before he can raise questions. "You are married now, Ahren."

His forehead only creases deeper. "Well, yes, but I don't see how that is relevant to the mission."

I stand from my chair. Suddenly this office feels too formal for our conversation. I feel like I'm speaking with an advisor about matters of state instead of to my newlywed son about the responsibilities that come with love. "Come with me." My hand finds his shoulder. "I want to show you something."

* * *

"A supply closet?"

I chuckle because it seems absurd to see this room as something so simple, but I suppose if the memories were wiped away, that's all it really is. "Sort of." I step inside and Ahren follows uncertainly.

When I sit unceremoniously on the floor, surely gathering dust on my black dress pants, Ahren raises an eyebrow.

"Is insanity a side effect of panic attacks?" He asks, lingering in the doorway.

I'm smiling to myself in a way that surely appears idiotic. I guess it must juxtapose quite bluntly with the permanent scowl I've been carrying in recent days, but I'm finding hope. And this room, with its neglected sink that I'm pretty sure has gone unused for nearly twenty years, certainly helps to lift my spirits.

"Just come sit with your father for a few minutes, Ahren. Humor me. And shut the door behind you."

He doesn't seem particularly happy about it, but Ahren enters and leans against the door frame. His eyes watch me questioningly. "Dad, what's this about?"

"I came her with your mother once." And then I'm laughing to myself. "Okay, more like maniacally ran here for dear life. It wasn't exactly a scheduled date."

Ahren slides down to sit eyelevel with me. "Any more details to that story? Because I think I'm going to need a better explanation."

I nod. "Oh there are plenty of details, but I'll leave out as much kissing as possible for your delicate ears."

Ahren just rolls his eyes. He stopped being disgusted by America and I's affection for one another years ago when he realized it simply wasn't going away. "I appreciate your efforts."

"There were several rebel attacks during my selection." Ahren shakes his head in agreement. "This was one of the safe rooms. I didn't make it to the sublevel during one of the attacks but happened to run into Mom in the halls and we hid out in here for a few hours."

Ahren's eyes roam the room. "It doesn't look very secure."

"The door seals automatically. Only an access card can activate it."

"Oh."

I take a moment to fall back into the memory, purposely leaving out any mention of my own injuries afflicted by a completely separate cause from the attack. Ahren doesn't need to know what kind of sins lay in his family's past. Not now, anyway.

"It was difficult, keeping the girls here so far away from their families with death threats looming on a daily basis. So many times I just wanted to call everything off and send them home. I didn't think finding a wife was worth sacrificing the possible candidates. Your grandfather said it had to continue. He thought the selection could distract the people from rising unrest. So they stayed, and one of them died for it. Others came very close." I think of the bullet wound that has scarred over on my shoulder and absently finger the fabric of my shirt there. There is still a lingering guilt from Celeste's death, for all the nightmares those poor girls still surely carry with them.

Ahren is watching me with his careful eyes that look so much like my mother's once did. "But none of that was your fault. Those girls, I'm sure they felt like they had won the chance of a lifetime. All the danger was inflicted by the rebels, not you."

"Sure, I wasn't the one attacking them, but I should have been the one protecting them. That's what this room reminds me of, Ahren. That's why I brought you here. A man should always protect the people he loves." I look at him, _really_ look at him—the sharp angle of his jaw, the slight stubble dotting his chin. "And you, my boy, don't seem to be a boy anymore." My laugh is bittersweet. I wish America was here to see her first son, a husband.

Suddenly Ahren is turning sheepish. He rubs his hands over his knees. "I guess time does that to a person."

"Mm, my achy back is proof of that. Pretty soon you'll have to buy your old man a walker."

He's looking up at the ceiling, shaking his head. "Mom won't stand for that."

I can picture America with her nose scrunched disapprovingly, telling me that walkers are for eighty year-olds with arthritis in their hip and not a thirty-nine year-old king who trains with his guards. It hurts to picture her, but I can't stop the automatic smile that comes at her name. "No she won't. Not a chance."

We sit in silence until Ahren's murmur slices the air. "I miss her. A lot, Dad. I don't know—" He coughs awkwardly and I know it's to cover a sob, but I won't deny him his pride.

My eyes catch his and my hand finds his knee. "I know, kiddo. Me too. _A lot,_ a lot. And I'm so glad that you came home, that we were able to spend this time together, but you're starting a new season of your life and I don't think it should be here."

Ahren's eyebrows shoot up like jets. " _What?_ " He struggles for words, mouth falling open and snapping closed. "Dad, are you telling me to _leave_?"

My hand on his knee squeezes reassuringly, to comfort both him and myself because the hurt look he's giving me shoots pain like a drug through my blood. "Yes. Not because I want to get rid of you, son. Don't be absurd. You have a responsibility to your wife; you must consider her safety. I'm surprised the French haven't rung me yet to demand their daughter be returned to their soil. We are being attacked. Camille could get hurt."

The confliction is clear on Ahren's face. His fingers fidget. "But I have a responsibility here, too. This is my country, my family, _mom_ …" There's a pleading in his eyes and an ache that seems to lie just beneath the surface.

"Mom's heart attack is not your fault. We've been over this. I will take care of her." It feels like an empty promise, but undeniably true in its own way. I might not be able to bring her back. I can't help that, but I'll fight for her until it kills me. "You protect your girl, son." My hand moves to his shoulder. "And I-" I stop to breathe, even out my voice, "I'll protect mine."

He doesn't seem quite convinced, but I can feel the way his shoulders ease beneath my hand. "Are you sure about this?"

"Positive."

His smile is small and unassuming, like it's a secret he's keeping to himself. "I love her, you know? I do. She's it for me. Everything."

I just nod. "I know the feeling."

* * *

"I'm going to bring him back, for her. I promise it to you. Then maybe you'll be more tempted to come back to me if there's a wedding to plan?" I ask the silent room. I wasn't expecting an answer. I've gotten used to these one-sided talks, but I can imagine her responses. Sometimes I let myself fantasize that she's answering me in her head. Someday soon she'll open her eyes and recite replies to every conversation I've had over the past two months.

My head leans into her stomach where I've nestled myself to have an easy grip around her waist.

"Queen Eadlyn Shreave and King Kile Woodwork. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think? Then you and I can retire and go on all those trips we always talk about. I still want to see the Great Falls in the Northeast. We always said we would." My fingers splay gently over her hospital gown, smoothing out the papery fabric. "Do you remember? You told me we could go backpacking together. You wanted to see a moose." I laugh against the checkered gown. I can almost imagine her fingers reaching down and curling into my hair, her mesmeric voice telling me my laughs tickle.

I sigh.

Then I hum. It's the lullaby she used to sing to the twins, to Kaden, to Osten. She told me it was one of her father's favorites. On rough nights, when our colicky babies decided three in the morning was a good time to host a screaming match, America's lilting songs always did the trick.

I always left the singing to her, and know the echoing memory of her voice is hauntingly clear.

 _Stars shining bright above you_

 _Night breezes seem to whisper "I love you"_

I don't dare try to match her beautiful melody. I just whisper the words against her. My thumb runs along her waist.

 _Birds singing in the sycamore tree_

 _Dream a little dream of me_

Maybe this can be her lullaby too. Maybe it can carry her the same peace it swept over our crying infants.

 _Say nighty-night and kiss me_

 _Just hold me tight and tell me you miss me_

I'm choking the words out now. Why do I do this to myself? _For her_. Because I'm an idiot holding out for hopes that run away from me. Because I'm going to keep my promise to Ahren and take care of her. Even if it _kills_ me.

 _When I'm alone and blue as can be_

 _Dream a little dream of me_

And I'm pretty sure it's going to do just that—kill me. I don't bother wiping away the tears. Instead, I turn my face against her gown and let the fabric absorb them.

 _Stars fading but I linger on dear_

 _Still craving your kiss_

 _God,_ it hurts. I clutch her side more desperately in my hand. There's no shaking this time. This isn't a panic attack. It's just pain. I can feel it welling up under my chest. It hurts to swallow down air. The words struggle out sounding strangled. Not beautiful like hers were.

 _Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you_

 _Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you..._

And that's it. That's all I can get out. There's more, but I just don't know how to get through it. I've expended all my energy. Has it killed me yet? I wonder as I fight to breathe. How much longer until it kills me?

* * *

I wake up in the hospital bed. My face is pressed to her stomach. My hand is still locked to her waist. The fabric under my cheek has gone stiff from tears and whatever other fluids my nose secreted during the sobs.

Waking up is slow, but memories of yesterday come back. Promises come back. I cough through my hoarse throat and decide I need to finish what I started.

 _But in your dreams whatever they be_

 _Dream a little dream of me_

It sounds like a rasping smoker with the flu. My tongue is too dry and my voice too raw. I should drink some water. But it feels good to finish something. To feel like I'm trying. Like I haven't given up.

And I'll keep trying.

Until it kills me.

* * *

 **Oh my goodness, you guys are so nice! Seriously. Shout-outs to Just an Average Fan, mubasketball21, and all the brilliant guests that I wish I could name. You guys are the best! Hope you liked the newest chapter, Bear with me through the pain y'all. Be strong! Talk to you next time! And please leave a review! They are so encouraging! God bless.**

 **~SpaceNut**


	9. Chapter 9

The bulletproof caravan of cars are usually only driven into town when America and I are needed for ceremonies or press matters, but today all twelve of the black shining vehicles idle in the palace's long drive. They aren't waiting for me this time.

Ahren is determined not to let the staff carry his bags because _technically_ he is no longer an Illѐan prince and should be treated as such. I poked a whole in his balloon of a theory by mentioning that he lost that title to become the prince consort of one of our most valuable allies, so he is entitled to all privileges endowed to visiting dignitaries. In response, he sputtered as majestically as a future king can and hauled up five suitcases in a glorious display of artful stumbling.

Camille smiled conspiratorially at me over his shoulder.

I really do like that girl.

With Ahren convinced his masculinity would be bruised by taking more than one trip to the caravan waiting for him at the bottom of the front steps, Camille was left with only a small hand purse to swing in her fingers. She loitered behind him, standing on the top step beside me.

"Your Majesty?" Camille had a soft voice, but it carried well. She would make a fine queen someday. I turned to catch her eyes. She was petite, looking up and making me feel too tall.

"Yes?" If she was any other visitor I would carefully make a point of using her politically-correct title in every instance—but this was Camille. I'd watched her grow up. I'd seen the girl in only a diaper. Once, on a short trip to France, I'd even played an hour-long game of grueling hide-and-seek with the girl. I had memorized all the dauphines and countesses and sultanas, but it made no difference. Camille was sweet Camille.

"With great gratitude, I just wanted to thank you for-" She stuttered, which made my eyebrows rise because Camille had never been one to lose her train of thought. Her gaze had shifted and softened, though. I followed it to see my son, refusing the white gloved hands that offered him assistance as he methodically shoved luggage into a trunk. Camille cleared her throat and looked back at me. "You raised him. And I'm so thankful."

I knew that look. The way her eyes melted at the edges into an almost sleepy wistfulness. Her lips turned up slightly. I doubt she even noticed she was smiling. I know I never did.

I'd be watching America read, or spoon some liquefied vegetable medley into the mouth of our cranky baby, or scrunch up her eyebrows adorably the way she always does when working on a budget. She'd look up to find me staring and flash a teasing grin. "Why are you smiling at me like that?" She'd ask. It wasn't until then that I would notice the tug of cheek muscles that had occurred. It was even something I thought about anymore. I could read her name and smile. I could catch her scent and smile. There was no reason. Just that it was _her_. I gave up long ago trying to discover any logical explanation.

Now I caught the look tugging at Camille's lips. I considered asking her what the grin was for, but I didn't want to ruin this for her. Soon enough, she'd realize that there was no real cause. Just a person.

"As much as I'd like to, I can't take much credit. That boy had one heck of a mother." _Has._ He _has_ one heck of a mother. The correction is immediate, but so is the guilt. Am I already forgetting, erasing America from—

"You are very modest, Your Majesty." Camille can't seem to stop the small flitting glances she casts in Ahren's direction. "He is very much your son. Of course, I can see Queen America in him. But I see so much of you." She reaches for my hand. It's comforting in a way I haven't felt lately. Everyone wants to tell me how _sorry_ they are. They wish they could fix things. They hope for recovery. _Blah blah blah._ What good does any of that do? But Camille isn't trying to apologize or offer her 'sincerest condolences'. She's giving me something to be proud of. She's reminding me of how much America's life is worth, how much has already come of it.

I squeeze the ends of her fingers.

"Ahren may be empathetic to the needs of others, but he is not weak. He does not jump to do another's biding, though his heart is kind. He sees the value in listening, in patience, in toleration. And he seems to have an incredible capacity of love." She looks down shyly, as if she's said too much. I want to tell her that my heart is swelling with pride. "And he gets all that from you."

Camille lets out a delicate _oomph_ when I surprise her by dominating her tiny frame with a hug. Her blond head only comes to the center of my ribs, so my arms press around her shoulders instead of her waist. She lets out a bubbled laugh. I release her with the traces of a smile. "I apologize. That wasn't politically correct of me." I'm not actually sorry.

Camille adjusts the strand of pearls around her neck so the clasp is hidden under her hair again. "Sometimes exceptions must be made, don't you think Your Majesty?"

Yes. Yes, I do.

Ahren is bounding up the stairs, freed of his pack mule load, and eyeing us curiously. "Everything okay?" His fingers weave effortlessly into hers.

"Of course," I turn my smile from Camille to him. "Just some father-daughter bonding."

His eyes light up. "Yeah? Well I'm sorry I interrupted."

"Nonsense, I shan't keep you any longer. I've heard royals keep tight schedules."

"Something like that," Ahren murmurs, releasing Camille's hand to wrap an arm around my shoulders. His words are soft in my ear. "It's nice to see you smile, Dad."

I wave from the stairs as they pull away.

* * *

I've been trying to distract myself with anything and everything imaginable. I even offered help to a maid carrying an overflowing basket of uniforms to our laundering facilities. She just shooed me away. Respectfully, of course.

Now I sit in my oversized antique office chair, reading over educational reports from the individual provinces. Technology reforms are being requested, which seems ludicrous to me, considering that some of the Southern provinces are still struggling to maintain electrical power in public buildings. Recent storms destroyed a few consequential power lines and the emergency—

My train of thought goes chugging off without me when I register the knock on my door.

Panic hits me quickly like the electricity missing in the South. This is what I've been hiding from. It seems to have found me.

Aspen is the one who's come, unsurprisingly. Who else would I discuss our most pressing military mission with? Not the laundry staff that I spoke with earlier.

I stand from my desk, pushing in the ancient chair, and walk to stand in front of Aspen. He keeps his hands clasped behind him, waiting. "To Command Room A?"

He nods.

* * *

There was a malfunction. Something cut off our communications and tracking devices. A dark-suited man in the room suggested that the rebels sent out a radio wave with a high enough frequency to obstruct connection between our command center at the palace and the dispatched team.

I really don't care what caused it. I just know that my scalp is going to be sore tomorrow from how tightly I'm pulling on my hair. My tie seems to have disappeared at some point. I don't remember taking it off, but when I went to ring my hand around it, I found my collar distinctly lacking in neckwear.

Aspen is trying to assure me that everything is under control, but he's too busy barking into his earpiece to offer much comfort. Not that I expect him to.

Staying level-minded in disasters is something I am uncannily skilled at in most situations. After all, I've had more assassination attempts directed toward me than most, so one could say I've had some practice. But this is bad. This is _very very_ bad.

How am I supposed to keep my promise? What an idiot I am— " _Oh America, I'll bring him back. I swear it to you! Darling? You're on your death bed? How about I cheer you up by reuniting our only daughter and future queen with her fiancé currently being held hostage by the militarists trying to start a revolution to dethrone me?"_ Yes Maxon! That's a splendid plan! Why don't you go ahead and promise to start an intergalactic colony on Neptune while you're at it?

Stupid, stupid man.

Aspen is telling me that, if all went according to schedule, the team should be arriving in two hours and twenty-seven minutes on the nose. But we don't know if it all went according to plan. That's the problem.

A troop of helicopters were just sent out to scan along the planned return route in hopes of spotting the military vehicles the troops would be arriving in. So now we just sit and wait, which is truly an awful thing to do.

Waiting for your comatose wife to wake up. Waiting for a loyalist attack on your home to end. Waiting to hear if your attempted rescue team is safely bumbling home, or if they slaughtered in their boots.

I am so _sick_ of waiting.

The worst part is when Eadlyn walks in. I feel guilty as soon as I think it, but I wish someone had instructed the guards to keep her outside. I didn't want to her to sit through this, too.

The fact that Eadlyn hasn't left her room for the past two weeks, except for the occasional meal or to lock herself in Kile's old room, doesn't help much. She shuffles in looking the same, like the life is leeching out of her. Her hands twist around her stomach, holding herself tightly with pale arms. She squints at the screens like she's become accustomed to darkness. Maybe she has.

I haven't pushed her to talk much. I know how she feels. Talking about things is just painful at this point, not therapeutic. So I had stopped by her room to deliver any news I could before the rescue team was sent. When she skipped meals, I made a point of leaving a tray of food on her bedside table, even though it always returned to the kitchen untouched. I came to her before I went to bed and kissed her forehead. But I never pushed. That would only make things worse.

And looking at Eadlyn now as she clutches hopelessly at her own rumpled dress, the same one she was wearing yesterday when I took her a cup of tea, I realize she couldn't handle ' _worse_ '.

I shut my eyes tightly and fight off the overwhelming sense of helplessness that has seized me. Was it just this morning that Camille had me grinning? It doesn't feel like the same life, let alone the same day.

My hand reaches toward Eadlyn. Her eyes don't leave the unhelpful screens, but some part of her brain is still operating, because her feet wander to my chair and she leans over the armrest and against my shoulder.

We sit like that in silence and watch the swarming men before us do their jobs, pressing buttons, shouting orders, playing back feed. We wait. We cry a little. Neither of us mutters a word, because there's nothing to be said.

* * *

It's been two hours and twenty-six minutes. According to Aspen's watch, the team should be arriving in seconds. But time keeps passing and I'm still staring at closed iron gates from the top of the stairs I'd stood on so joyfully before. Eadlyn went to the gardens with a small beeper to alert her if there are any changes. She didn't want to watch anymore.

The helicopters we sent out earlier found nothing along the return route, which is certainly not what I'd been hoping to hear. Aspen assures me not to be too discouraged by that. He claims there's a good chance the troops took an alternate route if they were be pursued at all. I guess this was supposed to be comforting.

The fact that I haven't been able to be with America in nearly ten hours doesn't help ease my anxiety either. Even on days lined back-to-back with meetings, I figure out a way to weasel into her room just to check on her. I don't like being away for this long.

The roads are empty. The gate stays closed. I scuff my shoe along the marble stairs. The minutes keep seeping away.

* * *

At midnight I retire from my seat on one of our balconies that offers a clear view of the palace's front lawn. My head had started to do that thing where it drooped down as my eyes fluttered shut until my chin hit my chest, and then I'd shoot up and assure myself that I wasn't tired at all. There was no point though. Besides, I needed to say goodnight to America.

At first, I had been afraid to touch her. I might skirt my fingers over hers in a butterfly of a touch or brush back a stray hair if needed, but nothing more. It seemed wrong to touch her when she wasn't there to smile back or swat my hand away from doting. Eventually I simply couldn't stand it. I'd hold her hand in my and rest her knuckles against my lips the way I used to when she was upset. And then that wasn't close enough, and I had hesitantly sat down on the bed that crinkled beneath me and kissed her forehead. By now, I'd given up all pretenses of distance.

I rolled by the sheets tucked around her and slid a hand beneath her shoulder blades, the other under her knees. She felt weightless. It horrified me. Maneuvering to the nearest chair, careful to untwist her IV from where it'd caught on my ankle, I sunk down with America nestled against me. I leaned back so her head rolled softly onto my chest.

It was dark at one in the morning. Only the blinking green lights of machines casted a faint glow. All noise was held at bay. I could hear the whispering thump of America's heartbeat and let it rock me to sleep where I dreamed of playing tag with my grandchildren. I could hear Kile and Eadlyn laughing in the distance when America convinced the kids to ally against me. I pretended to fall under their giggling dog pile.

* * *

 **I know you guys think I am heartless, but I have feelings, I promise. (Okay, partially, at least). I can't get over you guys. SO NICE! SO SO NICE! I'm pretty sure I am developing some sort of crazy eye strain from staying up late into the night and staring at the glow of my laptop while I type, but your reviews make it worthwhile. Ha, seriously. Love you guys. Bunches. Leave a review and I'll talk to you guys soon with next week's chapter! God Bless.**

 **~SpaceNut**


	10. Chapter 10

Sprinting. Panting. _Hoping._

Kaden kept pace beside me with his arms swinging at his sides. We veered right down a hallway, cutting close to the corner in a small effort to save time. Laundry maids flattened themselves against the wall as we breezed past. Under normal circumstances I would have stopped and apologized for the inconvenience, but under normal circumstances I wouldn't be running.

The swinging white infirmary doors loomed at the end of the hall. I flung myself through like a battering ram and was struck blinking at the endless white lines of beds. No matter how many times I was here—which were adding up to a disturbingly high number—the room's brightness always left me feeling temporarily blind. I adjusted quickly.

"Where are they? _Where_? Someone report!" I was blubbering at no one in particular, recovering from the whiplash brought by launching from sleep to sprint in five seconds flat. Come to think of it, I probably wasn't in the best state of mind to handle such pressing matters.

Kaden kept a steady hand on my elbow. His steps guided me through the immediate wing of medical cots and curtains into the next.

 _Oh._ This place was swarming.

Lab coats and nurse uniforms bustled before me in frenzies. I saw the gleam of needles and the red flashes of blood and gauzy pale bandages.

It was awful. It was ugly. It was everything I had to live through nearly twenty years ago. Everything I'd hoped would never haunt me again.

I was thankful for Kaden's tight hold on my arm. I think I would have crashed to my knees without the reassuring press of his fingers.

" _Dad_." My eyes ripped away from the scene and met Kaden's, willing me to listen. "General Leger is over there," He pointed to the opposite end of the room, "speaking with Dr. Hendrix. He can probably give you the best update."

I nodded, to myself or to him I'm not sure, but it was still a response. His hand gave me a soft squeeze before releasing. I watched him fold his fingers together and turn, only to stand observantly against the wall behind us.

My wits were finally returning. "You don't need to stay here, Kaden. You shouldn't have to see all of this."

Kaden's eyes flickered over the beds carefully. "These are my people, too, Dad. I will not abandon them in times of crisis."

I wanted to hug him, kiss his hair, let me eyes well with proud tears—but there was a time and place for such things. It was not now.

I nodded, this time completely aware of the action and hoping Kaden could feel the pride emanating from every part of me. Then I marched over to hear a report about the hell that had descended upon us.

* * *

Sometimes I really hated how unperturbed Aspen remained under pressure. It irked me to no end. I felt like a snake was constricting around my chest and his voice didn't even lift an octave. It was also one of my most respected qualities of his. Funny how that works.

He saluted me as I neared. "Your Majesty, our men have returned."

"I can see that."

"All of the hostages have been recovered and are currently being treated for any wounds sustained. There do not appear to be any fatalities at this time."

This was surprisingly good news. Whenever I sent out troops, guilt throbbed just beneath my skin like a constant itch. Not all men come home. That was a basic fact of battle. And it killed me inside.

" _No deaths? None?_ " I needed to clarify.

"None, Your Majesty."

Dr. Hendrix piped in for the first time. "And as of right now, we foresee considerable recovery for all wounds, if not complete healing."

He sounded oddly happy for such a terrible situation, but I guess this _was_ good. As much as I hated to think the terrible thought, I hadn't been expecting a one hundred percent survival rate. In fact, up until ten minutes ago, I was convinced there was a _zero_ percent survival rate.

The bitterness in my throat started to ebb away with the news.

There were still too many questions swirling in my head to be comfortable though.

"If our team and the Elite have safely returned, why are there so many bodies in these beds? And why the delay in our scheduled rescue plan? Why did none of the soldiers respond at the check points?"

Aspen heaved a sigh, the first indication that he was experiencing any stressful emotions. "Everyone has returned in one piece, but the mission did not go as planned. We are still trying to work out all the details. The mission commander is currently under anesthesia, in surgery to remove shrapnel embedded in his legs. When he is conscious and coherent, we will attempt to get more information from him. As of right now," Aspen's eyes wandered over the filled beds and mine followed. "I think our main priority should be the health of these young men."

I wanted answers, but by now, I was used to not getting what I wanted. "Agreed, Captain."

So we would play the waiting game. I was getting real sick and tired of _waiting_ these days.

* * *

It hadn't struck me as odd that Kaden was wearing his full royal dress at three in the morning. My mind didn't have time to grasp the abnormality until it had adjusted to the situation at hand. But now, I was suspicious.

His eyes waved vigilantly over the room like the beacon of a lighthouse, and as I approached they turned towards me. Those eyes—a summery blue that reminded me of sky and water and screamed _life_ . America's eyes.

"So, why were you the one sent to retrieve me? I would think they'd just dispatch a guard to deliver the message."

Kaden blinked. "I was available."

"In the middle of the night? Wearing polished dress shoes?" I raised my eyebrows.

"Yes."

I sighed, my hand naturally finding its way into my hair. I'm surprised I hadn't thinned it to a few straggling strands by now. "Kaden, I know we haven't talked like we should. I'm sorry. That's my fault, and I won't give you excuses, but you know I'm here when you need me."

He wouldn't look at me, finding much more interest in the tile pattern of the white flooring. I forced his chin up with a gentle finger and found those summery eyes again. "I'm always here."

We were quiet. The buzzing of small metal carts being pushed on wheels, orders delivered and received, the beeping and thrumming of machines—they combined to supply a steady background lull as I waited for Kaden to speak. He worked his jaw slowly. I watched the muscles pulse in his neck.

"I can't, Dad."

This surprised me. "Can't what?"

"I can't _talk_ to you!" I couldn't handle his eyes anymore. So much like America's, and now they were desperately pleading with me. Begging. Imploring. There was a shining urgency that cut into my chest like a sharpened butcher's knife. "How can I talk to you when you're always with her? In that cursed room? With those all those awful tubes making her look more like a robot than my mother! It smells like death in there, like every trace of life has been bleached away." He looked up with a sudden breath, digging his teeth into his bottom lip. " _How?_ " His head turned quickly to the side, a hand running over his eyes. They were glistening when he met my gaze again. "I can't go near her. I'm a coward. How am I supposed to talk about _that_?"

The last time I saw Kaden cry, he was nine years-old. He and Aspen had tried to climb one of the sprawling oaks in the garden, but Kaden had fallen when his fingers gripped moss instead of bark. It wasn't a bad fall, though America was nearly hysterical until Dr. Hendrix confirmed that the only damage would be a temporary bruise on his back.

Now I looked at the tears walled up in his eyes and my heart squeezed uncomfortably, tightening my chest like a shrinking cage. I didn't want this. Any of it.

"Not a coward." I whispered, my hands finding his shoulders. I wanted to press him to my chest, arms wrapped around him, and never let go. But Kaden was a young man now, not the little boy who'd fallen from the tree. He needed comfort, but not coddling. "You're scared. I'm scared, too. It's okay."

He shook his head. "But I can't even-"

"Maybe we all try to cope in different ways." I cleared my throat. It felt like all my words were sticking to my esophagus. "I spend all the time I can with Mom, because it almost feels like she's still there. By not being around her, you can pretend she never had the heart attack at all. Like she's just reading in another room or sitting in a meeting. I get it, Kaden. We are all afraid, but we can be scared together."

I don't know if he was fully convinced, but he held my stare. At least my words were being heard. At least he knew he wasn't alone.

"I talk to her," I whisper because it feels like a secret. I suppose it was until now. "It helps. She's still your mother. Who she is hasn't changed at all. You should try it. Maybe it will help."

Kaden nods. He's retreated back into his own thoughts. I can tell by the way his lighthouse beacon gaze wanders away from me, back over the scurrying staff and the soldier-laden beds. I grip his shoulders a bit tighter and he looks up. His voice stays quiet. "Thanks Dad. I'll give—"

" _KILE!"_ Our moment is broken by the shrieking of a delirious girl throwing herself through the swinging doors. Her silk dress is in limp shreds that hang loosely around her legs as if she's ripped the fabric herself. Her eyes are wild and large, searching.

 _Those eyes_. Heavens above, it's Eadlyn. It's Eadlyn tripping madly past the nurses. Eadlyn with her hair, always pinned perfectly so, hanging wet like curling vines with fresh dew still dripping. Eadlyn yelling one name over the infirmary's bustle. Her voice mutes all else. It pierces the room, workers turning to stare with shock at their prim and proper princess reduced to a tattered gown and mad screams.

She flies past every bed, and when she doesn't see what she wants, she repeats the search until strong hands grip her shoulders. Eadlyn's nails rip viciously at the man.

" _Where is he? Where_?" I've never seen her like this, never even imagined the girl before me could be the same one who sits stoically at budget meetings, sips tea with the royals of Italy, or walks with the grace of a gliding swan. "I know he's here. He _has_ to be. Release me or I—"

" _Eady."_

It's my voice, though I don't remember speaking. Her eyes fly to mine. Aspen was the one holding her in place. He'd been repeating her name, over and over, but somehow she only looks to me.

"Daddy, _help_." Her arms reach out, despite Aspen's still solid grip to keep her from rampaging again. "Please, Daddy. Please. I need to go. I need to find him." Her head whips back and forth like she's telling me 'no'.

No, don't let them stop me. No, don't let him die. No, no, no.

"Aspen?" I ask.

Eadlyn finally registers him. Her arms go limp to her sides, as if she's relented, and he slowly yields his hold. His eyes flicker to mine briefly and I catch the nervous look with a shot to my gut.

 _What happened to Kile?_

"Yes, my Princess." Aspen offers her his arm. "I will escort you to see Sir Woodwork."

Eadlyn latches to his arm for dear life, muttering thank you's under her breath as a mantra.

Aspen looks over his shoulder as they pass me. "Perhaps His Majesty would accompany us?"

It's not a question, it's a hint.

"Of course." I fall in step beside them, casting my eyes back to see Kaden still holding vigil against the wall.

I offer him a nod and a small smile, hoping he'll carry some of the words we've shared out of the room. To my surprise, he mirrors my smile.

I want to savor the victory, but I follow my feet leading deeper into the infirmary. We pass the birthing suites that America used to bring our four children into the world, pass the high-tech operation rooms reserved for surgery, pass the emergency quarantine rooms marked with hazard signs. Now I'm getting worried. What else is there?

Eadlyn is like a small child, bumbling along beside Aspen with her small hands wound tight to his forearm. Her feet slide and falter as if she's learning to walk for the first time.

Finally we stop at a door, white like all the others. There is no window, and I'm hit by a sudden fear of what lies beyond.

"Please, be gentle," Aspen speaks to Eadlyn in a soft voice.

 _Gentle?_

"The doctors aren't exactly sure how he will react."

The words swirl in my head unconnected. React to what? Again, Apsen shoots me a meaningful look, but what it means I don't know.

His fingers grip the doorknob and he pushes it open carefully. Everything feels fragile.

Eadlyn slips through in a scurry.

" _Kile."_ It's so faint, completely contradicting her maddened shrieks only moments before. I haven't entered yet. All I hear is her wispy voice.

And then he screams.

 **You guys, I am sorry. So sorry. Like, gargantuanly sorry! I really never intended to take so long writing this chapter, but then I realized how much more I wanted to plan before I published this, and it took some thinking. ANYWAY, there you have it. There is so much more to come, so bear with me! Thanks a million for reading and sticking with me! More updates soon! Who was your favorite character in this chapter? Personally I enjoyed Eadlyn, because it was interesting to write her acting so out of the norm. Let me know your opinion! God bless.**

 **~SpaceNut**


	11. Chapter 11

The screams don't stop until Eadlyn has thrown her body over Kile's, planting her cheek against his chest and gripping his shoulders with desperate hands.

" _Oh God_ ," She cries into him, only stopping to gasp through her sobs. "Oh God, it's you."

He looks torn between horror and relief. I watch, careful to stay in the doorway as if I'm only partially intruding on their privacy. Kile's screams fade into tortured breaths so deep that I can see Eadlyn's little frame rise with his inhales. He's shaking, every single part of him that I can see, which isn't much with the white sheets pulled up to his chest and my daughter obstructing the view. His body seems to fidget with such a minute rapidity that it's almost like looking at movie in 3D without the glasses. The lines seem to blur. It takes a full minute of Eadlyn repeating her exclamations before his hands leave the sheets and find her waist, and even then he doesn't hold her the way I anticipated. His fingers dust over her faintly, from her waist up her spine until they find rest in her hair, softly landing, and holding her to him.

His eyes still hold a fearful wonder and he casts them around the room, finding Aspen and I. He nods slowly at each of us.

"So it's true?" He whispers, eyes zeroing in on Aspen, who now stands at the foot of the bed.

"I told you so myself, Sir Woodwork. All are safe and sound."

Eadlyn lifts her head enough to search out Kile's eyes. He's looking at her, but not really. His eyes drift over her without seeing, like she's transparent. A ghost.

She pulls away to sit beside him and his fingers clamber to keep a hold on her, knotting into her ruined dress. Eadlyn's hand rises to his forehead as if she's checking for a fever. It is quite possibly the most affectionate gesture I've ever seen her offer. Her eyes pool with worry.

"I don't understand," She whispers. Her hand falls to his cheek. "What's wrong? _Look at me, Kile_."

He stares at where his fingers clutch the tattered ribbons of a dress around Eadlyn's middle. Only his hands shake now, but Eadlyn places her own over his to still them.

"I'm here now." She whispers. Her thumbs stroke gently over his knuckles.

Even when Kaden and Osten had been babies, Eadlyn was never this gentle. She was my own little hurricane. She was a confident character who knew her title and owned it. Now she could be mistaken for any young woman on the street. There is no prestigious air consuming her. She's just a scared little girl.

"You're safe and I'm here."

Kile starts to cry.

It's a strange thing—seeing a grown man cry. It's the ultimate act of emotional submission. When you can't take it anymore, there's no other release, and the overwhelming sensation consumes you without conscious consent. I know the feeling well.

Kile's tears seem familiar in a terrible way. I know heartbreak on a first name basis.

Eadlyn eases his head into her lap, combing her fingers through the hair around his ear in a rhythmic way that could only develop from practice. I imagine past circumstances didn't include such tearful distress, though. She whispers to him now, leaning her lips next to his ear, and speaks so low that I can't hear. By the way Kile clings tighter, I'm glad of my inability to eavesdrop. Some things are too private, and if there wasn't a matter of the country's security at risk, I would have left the two alone to begin with.

When he does speak, it comes out heart-shatteringly clear.

"You were dead."

Eadlyn's hand freezes mid-circuit through his hair. "What?"

He pulls away, briefly making eye contact with Aspen and I, then turns his tear-kissed face back to her. His voice is hollow and steely, like wind chimes. Eerie wind chimes. "You were dead. I watched you die. _Over and over and over._ That's all I did. For two weeks, Eadlyn. I watched you _die_."

"But…" Eadlyn looks at me for the first time. She's a buoy adrift in a whirlpool, rain hurtling down and throwing her every which way. Utterly lost. "But I'm fine, Kile. See?" She takes his hand, holds it over her heart. "Alive."

He shakes his head adamantly. The wet trails on his cheeks shine. "Not to me. That wasn't what I saw. They chased you through the palace, down corridors and stairs, out to the gardens. You were screaming the whole way. _Awful_ screams." He has to stop, catch his breath, and blink hard before continuing. His hand grasps hers. "And then there were guns. _So many guns_. They were everywhere. On the roof, in the woods, behind the bushes. And they fired. Every last one. And you fell and the _blood—"_ He stuffs a fist into his mouth, choking back the ugly sobs that burst forth. His eyes weld shut painfully tight.

Eadlyn loses it. The tears that flow are uninhibited, undammed, and unyielding.

I can't watch anymore. Just _seeing_ their pain hurts. It twists a knife already deeply thrust into my gut. I turn and walk out the door.

 **This is super short, I know, but I really wanted to get something out for you guys after that mega-mean cliffhanger from the last chapter. Coming Soon: more Kaden character development, explanations of Kile's torture, WHAT THE HECK HAPPENED TO THE OTHER ELITE, Aspen's personal problems, and so much more. Stay tuned lovelies, and Happy October! God Bless!**

 **~SpaceNut**


	12. Chapter 12

"Dinners are so boring without you. A few weeks ago they removed your chair from the dining table, and I swear, dad almost burst a vein. It took us fifteen minutes to convince him that the staff didn't mean anything by it. They were simply accounting for the number of people at the table."

There's a pause, then a breathy laugh.

"Dad was screaming something about treason." Kaden shakes his head. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe the punishment for that would be a public shooting by a firing squad.

He waits. The silence fills with stale robotic hums.

"Really, mom. Feel free to correct me."

He falls quiet again. From where I'm standing by the door, eavesdropping through a crack, I can see the rise and fall of America's chest. Kaden sighs.

I had no intention of snooping on Kaden's private conversation. Truly. I'd done enough imposing for one day thanks to the miraculous reunion of my daughter and her kind of fiancé. I was still rather unclear on where they stood regarding that matter, but now was probably not the time to ask. Needless to say, I felt no need to be a peeping tom, but when I had gone searching for relief in America's infirmary room and accidently walked in on Kaden's privacy, I was unable to escape before hearing him mention me.

After all, is it really eavesdropping if you're the topic of discussion?

I could only see Kaden's upper back above his chair. He suddenly jolted forward, curling over America's hand grasped in his own.

I didn't understand at first, but then I heard his reserved sobs. The shake of his shoulders was incredibly minute. At first, I thought it was just my imagination.

My heart clenched. I ached to comfort him, but resisted—for now at least. If he wished to weep alone, I would respect that.

"He needs you, mom." I barely recognized his hollowed voice. "He needs you so much. I can't watch him waste away like this. It's—it's awful. I don't know what to do!" He shouts, then collapses like a lifeless corpse over the side of her bed.

I bite down hard on my lip.

His sobs turn into quiet hiccups. "And Ahren—oh mom, the guilt. We've tried. Believe me, we've been so careful to reassure him that nothing was his fault, but what can we do? He's convinced and it's devouring him from the inside out."

Is it? I thought I'd persuaded him not to blame himself. Had he just been hiding his regrets?

"Eadlyn is so lost I hardly recognize her. The selection has gone to hell. I think Osten is having nightmares. Sometimes, I hear him crying through the walls. And I…" He gasps a breath. "And I…"

Kaden stops. His words have been building with intensity, rolling out faster and faster like an avalanche, then breaking off just as abruptly. I listen with strained ears and hear only his strained breaths.

"And I miss you so much, mom."

He moves from the chair, arms slipping around America's waist as he cries silently into the sheets pulled over her stomach.

"Won't you wake up? Won't you come back for me?" I manage to hear him whisper. "Please?"

To my utter horror, I watch on as he reaches for her hand, pulling it gently to rest over his shoulders. He clasps his fingers over her other hand and presses it to his hair.

A hug. He'd made her embrace him.

My eyes squeeze shut with a painful force as I slump against the doorframe, sapped of energy. I feel so weak. There is a physical pain in my chest, pressing against my rib cage like a burning flame.

My heart has broken so much deeper than I ever knew. It is not cracked. No, cracks I could handle. It's severed with canyon-sized crevices, abysses of immeasurable depth.

The realization hits me like a brick to my temple. I feel dizzy.

I don't know how to cope.

I can't cope.

There is no cure.

This is what I think as I turn toward my office, picturing the aged bottle of scotch that sits in a cabinet behind my desk. It was a wedding gift never opened.

I had never needed it until now.

* * *

I think Aspen is saying something about a debriefing meeting. At least, that's what it sounds like, but it's hard to tell when he keeps tilting off balance.

"Hold still!" I shout, effectively ending his sentence. "I can't focus when you're swaying around like that!"

For the first time since entering, he looks up from the stack of papers clasped between his hands.

"Dear God, Maxon. Are you drunk?"

"I don't drink."

He stares at me unbelievingly.

"So to answer your question, yes, I believe I am."

His frown squeezes his eyebrows together, wrinkling his face. "What's happened? I was with you two hours ago." He moves to stand before my desk. Spotting my glass bottle of fine scotch, he picks it up to examine. Holding it eyelevel, his face falls even further. "Please tell me you did not just open this bottle. Tell me you have not consumed half of this since I last saw you."

I wave him away. "Leave me alone, Aspen. I'm warning you now in kindness. I don't hold my liquor well." And suddenly all I can think is that America is the only other person who's ever seen me drunk and that just makes everything worse.

His eyes widen. "Well if you can keep all of this down, I don't think you can call yourself a lightweight."

His words don't amuse me. "Special circumstances," I mutter. "Now if you could go finish whatever business is calling you, that would be wonderful. I'm afraid I will have to push back my duties until tomorrow."

Aspen doesn't leave. He just stands there, running his hands over his face and through his hair. "Let's just hope all you get is a hangover and not something serious like alcohol poisoning."

I glare hard at him. If I wanted someone to scold me, I would have asked. "It's one bottle, Aspen. You are free to take your worries elsewhere."

"It's a pretty big bottle, _Your Highness_." His tone pushes me over the edge.

There is a voice whispering in the back of my head, saying things like "responsibility" and "propriety" and "regality". But it is all worthless in light of the thoughts that have been sinking and slinking through my mind like black oil.

" _Yes,_ it's a _big bottle_! And thank the Lord above for that, because nothing less would do! Maybe by the time I reach the bottom I can forget and something will finally make sense again. Now leave before I personally escort you out the door, _General Ledger_." I don't recognize my own voice. It erupts like a dragon breathing flames.

He's still standing there. His face flattens into that of a soldier.

"No, Your Majesty. I will not leave. As a proud member of our military, I apologize for refusing orders. But as your friend, I can't be sorry for making sure you don't drink yourself into mindlessness."

There's a softening in his eyes. It just makes me angrier.

"Mindlessness is better than the hell I'm living in."

He slumps into the chair across from me, quiet and contemplating. I take another swig of the bottle and he winces. The burn running down my throat is almost enough to distract me.

"Maxon, I know you're in pain—"

"No!" And now I'm standing, yelling. "No, _you don't know!_ No one knows! My wife is dead, Aspen! She's dead! Dead." I grip the glass with my fingers, sloshing it before me. " _Dead._ My America. _No one understands._ "

The bottle flies across the room, hits a glass-enclosed bookcase, and shatters with a scream of its own.

My chest is heaving. I couldn't say the words before, but now they are hanging in the air, my ghosts embodied before me. "Dead. Dead. _Dead…"_ I repeat and repeat. The word tastes strange, like I'm speaking a foreign language. "Dead."

I sway, my eyes fixed on the shattered bookcase. My darling is gone. My darling is never coming back and I cannot make her and I cannot save her and that is the worst part. "I can't stop her from leaving me. I can't reason with her to stay. She just left and I just…" My fingers clench, unclench, and shake. "I have four children who suddenly have no mother. She can't even… she can't hug them! _Why?_ They need her. I will never be good enough for them alone. They need their mother and her love and—" I choke on the emotion swelling in my throat painfully.

"And _I_ need her. _I_ will be enough without her. _I_ need my wife and _I_ need her love and she's _dead_ , Aspen! Dead!" Maybe it was the scotch, but I wasn't seeing straight anymore.

Aspen looks at me with a mouth not quite closed and eyes that look as though they've seen a war. "Maxon, she's not dead. There's still a chance—"

"Three months, Apsen. It's been almost _three months_. If she were going to wake up… well, I don't think I need to explain this to you." I fall into the antique chair, afraid of collapsing on the ground.

"But we haven't lost her yet. There's still a chance."

"A chance? What is there? A five percent possibility of her waking up tomorrow? And then what when another month passes? What do I tell my children a year from now when their mother is still lying in that bed hooked up to all those God-forsaken tubes? There's a _chance_ that mommy might come back to us? How can I do that to them? How can I watch them unravel like me?" My lips are started to wobble like my hands.

Aspen stares at me so intensely I look away.

"I don't know." He admits.

That's what I feared. I wasn't just crazy. This wasn't my emotions getting the best of me. The truth was, there was no answer.

I nod.

"But," Aspen stands, "I think that right now you should eat something, drink some water, and lie down before that scotch comes out the way it went in."

I don't want to. I don't want to do things so normal when it feels like my life has met its end, but my mind is tired. I don't fight him as he slips an arm under my shoulder, guides me out the door, and leads through private passages away from prying eyes and back to my bedroom chambers.

I eat, drink, and lie down atop my bed. My mind isn't quite clear, but I register the coldness of the sheets beneath me. It makes me weep.

 **I've never written drunk Maxon, so that was interesting. In my first draft, he was something of a goofy, floundering drunk, but that really didn't convey the emotions I was trying to write. This version was much more emotional, but also more effective. I rather like how it turned out. Also, I love this idea that Aspen and Maxon have come to be best friends. Especially with America comatose, I feel like Maxon would need to lean on someone who cared about her greatly. Just to clarify, no, America is not dead. This is Maxon coming to grips with the fact that she might not wake up.**

 **I did something of a character study on Kaden this chapter. I see him as the kind of person who feels an internal responsibility to fix things. He's responsible, and that bleeds over into his relationships.**

 **Okay, sorry for making you feel lots of feelings. And sorry for making you wait so long to feel them, but I hope it was worth it. Stick with me. We are making progress, guys. What do you think of Drunk Maxon? Let me know! Lots of love and pumpkin spice to all you wonderful readers! God bless!**

 **~SpaceNut**


	13. Chapter 13

I wake up wondering if I died. I don't dare open my eyes. The thought of moving is painful, thanks to the pulsing in my head. I feel like someone strapped a bomb to the inside of my skull and pressed the detonation button. That is the only explanation.

And then I remember the scotch.

I groan.

"Oh! King Sunshine has woken!" A voice says, much too loud and much too close to my recently-imploded head.

I wince at the noise.

"Ah. The headache is kicking in, I see." The voice has mercifully dropped an octave. "I had Mary send for a special concoction. I call it 'The Resuscitator'. After you drink that, I recommend a shower." She pauses, then quickly adds, "Not that I know anything about hangovers."

I want to laugh, but fear setting off the avalanche waiting to snow down my brain cells.

"Don't worry. Everyone thinks you're deep in a conference call with New Asia about some new trade negotiations. So take your time waking up, Your Royal Smashed-ness."

Now I remember why May is not a diplomat.

"No, no wait. I can do better than that. My Inebriated Excellency." I can imagine her smug grin in my muddled brain. "Yes, that will do quite nicely."

" _Be quiet,"_ I grit through my teeth.

"He speaks!" May continues to mock.

"You're banished." I growl.

"But if you banish me, who's going to bring you 'Resuscitators'?"

"And I will have you deported," I add for good measure.

May laughs heartily. I think my ears might be bleeding. I press a hand to my ear canal to check. _Nope_. Just excruciating pain.

I risk opening my eyes. It feels like I'm hurtling directly at the sun, waiting to explode in a blaze of heat and light. Then the outline of a young woman focuses before my eyes– red hair like a flame and big eyes shining with an untold joke.

"Deportation doesn't sound too bad. Can I choose my destination? There's this little town in Italy I've been wanting to visit. Lucca, it's called. Oh, I've heard it has the loveliest-"

"No." I cut her off. "No picking. You will be exiled to Siberia."

There's a flash of delight in her eyes. "Siberia? Why, the snowfall there is unparalleled! Yes, I simply _must_ go." She offers a wink.

I shake my head.

That was a mistake. My eyes squeeze shut until the waves crashing against my forehead even out into a calmer tide.

May's smirk has softened into something of a maternal grin. She rests a hand on the crook of my arm. "I've missed you Maxon."

And when she says it, the way she enunciates, I know she doesn't just mean it's been awhile since we last spoke. She misses the back-and-forth conversation, the loving glares quickly followed by laughter. It has disappeared for quite some time.

I squeeze her fingers and mumble a quiet "Me too."

"Although I must say," and from the tease in her voice I know another quip is coming my way, " I'm rather enjoying this whole 'King of Hangovers' twist. Way to keep me on my toes."  
I snort. "Why are you here anyway? Is there a purpose to your visit, or did you just come to humiliate me?"

"Oh, no, my darling brother. This was a lucky bonus."

Although she patronizes me mercilessly, I can't help the warmth in my chest when May calls me that. _Brother_. Marriage to America had also meant a new family, and I was more than happy to embrace the family tree. Family had always been sparse for me. I had no reservations to earning a few siblings.

"I came to check in on America." May's playful voice sobers considerably. "Aspen heard I was here and sent for me. Asked me to do a little babysitting while he handled a few matters." She winks again. So much for her serious tone. It blinks away as quickly as a shooting star.

"Babysitting?"

"Apparently His Majesty is not at full capacity this morning."

That's an understatement.

"Even so, I hardly think I need supervision."

May just shrugs. "Aspen thought you should have someone here when you woke up."

I bite back a comment about my being a full grown man and knowing how to take care of myself. Instead, I decide to concede that maybe I'm pretty lucky to have someone willing to wait at my bedside and order me 'Resuscitators'. "Thanks May."

She grins widely. "What are little sisters for?"

* * *

I end up staying with May until noon, drinking her so-called magic concoction, cleaning myself up, and bantering like I haven't in a long time. By the time I step into the hospital wing, I'm clean shaven, clear headed, and considerably less likely to throw up‒which is truly remarkable progress.

Aspen meets me at the swinging doors.

"Your Majesty," he inclines his head. "I presume you had a busy morning."

My lips quirk conspiratorially. "I suppose I have."

"All is well with our New Asia relations then?" There's a teasing in his tone.

"Better than ever."

"Good, good," Aspen presses his lips together in what I can only assume is an attempt to hold back laughter. Then he holds out his arm toward a side door off the main room. "Right this way, Your Majesty. Dr. Hendrix has some updates he'd like to share with you."

I can't say I'm particularly excited to hear the aforementioned updates.

Aspen and I walk side by side, until he opens a door on the wall of the empty hallway. The room inside has only one occupant: Dr. Hendrix. He sits at a desk, pouring over scribbles of notes stacked high. It's dim inside despite the fact that it's early afternoon. There is no window and Dr. Hendrix works from the light of a single small desk lamp.

He looks up as we enter.

"Your Majesty!" He exclaims, jumping into a quick bow.

I nod my head politely.

I've been avoiding Dr. Hendrix. Not because I have any pointed dislike toward the gentleman; he seems like a kindly man. No, it has nothing to do with him. Rather, I fear the conversations looming in the near future. I fear that he will repeat his previous concerns about America. And lastly, I fear that I won't be able to handle it any better than before‒if not worse.

Dr. Hendrix smiles, straightening his white lab coat over the button-up shirt he wears beneath. He looks rumpled in more ways than one. The shirt, even in the lack of light, looks wrinkled. His hair needs a good wash and his chin a shave. His fingers fidget in the pockets of his coat.

"A pleasure, doctor," I return his uneasy smile. "I was informed that you have some news."

"Yes, yes." He reaches behind him, shuffling through the mess of papers. He turns back with six manila folders. "I believe my team and I have made some rather helpful discoveries about the conditions of the Elite since their recent rescue."

He holds the folders out to me. Glancing down, I see that each has a name neatly printed across the top.

"It was strange at first," He begins. "All six of the young men had sustained injuries, but no two were alike. And also, notably, none of them were fatal."

I feel a knot untie in my chest. Thank God. I wasn't ready to tell a mother that her son had died because he wanted to marry my daughter.

Dr. Hendrix continues, "There are many forms of torture, of course. But why use different tactics for each of the young men? That was what we could not understand. This torture was very…" He rolls his hands together, searching for the word, " _Stylistic_."

At that I raise an eyebrow. I can see Aspen leaning forward with furrowed eyebrows.

"You see, we believe that the Loyalists were targeting each young man according to his personal strengths. It would be easy to understand them on a more personal level, considering the way the press has spotlighted them recently. As the world has been getting to know Princess Eadlyn's suitors, so have the Loyalists."

I thumb over the folders, my brain whirring. "I'm not sure if I quite understand what you're implying."

"The Loyalists weren't trying to kill their hostages." Dr. Hendrix's voice suddenly sounds tired. "Or even, wound them, really. They were trying to break them. Emotionally." He indicates the folders with the inclination of his head. "It's all in the files. I think you may best understand it if you read through them. I have typed up some very detailed reports, but please, come speak with me about any questions you may have."

Aspen looks as if he wanted to say more, but I nod stiffly and turned out the door, leaving him to follow.

* * *

Back in the comfort of my office, we comb through the papers.

They are awful.

Fox Wesley's back has been broken, whipped, beaten to a pulp. There are x-rays in his folder that I don't want to see. I remember him in Eadlyn's talent show‒flamboyant, lively, easy going. He was a flash of brightness and energy, and they had taken away his ability to walk.

There was Winslow Fields who had juggled bean bags, dropped them on his head, and sang away the embarrassment of it all. Under his name is written _water torture_. I could only imagine that the happy-go-lucky humor in him had been washed away.

Henri Jaakoppi, the young man from Swendway who could barely speak a word of English, had been blindfolded, handcuffed, and left in solitary confinement for the two weeks it took us to rescue him, unable to understand a word his captors were saying. He didn't know if he was waiting around for death, or torture, or to survive as a terrible misconstruing of a pet. He had been a constant smiling face from all that I could remember, not caring that he might stick out like a sore thumb amongst the other Selected. He was willing to fight through the his impediments in language, and they had left him in the dark. They had left him with nothing.

The hands of Hale Garner had both been broken. Every bone. I didn't know that was possible. I remember Eadlyn remarking one evening on his designs, saying she might have to hire him as a fashion adviser to the queen if the selection did not bend in his favor. It would be a long time before he could hold a pencil again.

Ean Cable had been subjected to electric shocks. When they'd found him, he was cowering in the corner of a cell, jumping at the slightest sound. I had noted the young man for his confidence, the way he held his head high despite being in a new environment‒and a palace no less. They had taken that from him.

And Kile. Eadlyn's Kile. Marlee and Carter's son. The boy I'd watched grow up. His report was by far the most confusing. Computers. Something about virtual projections. They had infiltrated his mind and fed him his nightmares. The boy that I remembered so well for his mind, his structure, his eloquence and intellect‒they had ripped it out of him like teddy bear stuffing, like it was something they could just _take._ Thoughts weren't meant to be mangled. I knew, with a terrible conviction, that it would take a long time to build him back together again and stitch up all the tears inflicted.

I swallow hard. It feels like a mass is rising up in my throat and I don't know if I can talk around it. Instead, I set the papers down and fold my hands together to keep them from shaking.

"It's a warning…" Aspen's voice sounds far away, even though he sits on just the other side of my desk. "A warning," He mutters again. "The attack. The Elite."

I watch the way his eyes scan over the desk, how his fingers tap against one another in rhythm. He's putting a puzzle together. I can see it in the silent churning waves of his face.

He looks up at me. His eyes seem to harden like coal pressed into diamonds. "They could have killed them, Maxon. All six of these men, I hate to say it, should have been _dead_. But they kept them alive. They let us infiltrate their camp. They allowed the captured to escape and return to us, so we could see what they had done, how they'd ripped them apart. It's a _warning._ They are telling you without words what's to come."

I sit and wait for that to sink in. It doesn't, not really. How can someone fully grasp the murderous plot set out for them? Instead, one thought flits through my mind.

 _I was having such a pleasant morning._

* * *

 **I apologize for the lack of America in this chapter, but I really needed to clear up a few things about the Elite and all that lovely (not really) stuff. But hey, May made an appearance! Yay! Also, Maxon is back to his usual self. Double yay!**

 **Future chapters will include: Eadlyn and Kile updates, the future of the monarchy, Loyalists, Maxamerica, and more Aspen because I have** _ **plans**_ **for him.**

 **Some of you who ship Edrik are probably disappointed that he has not shown up in the story, and I feel your pain. Really, I do. If this was written in Eadlyn's perspective, he would definitely be here. However, as it is, Maxon really has no reason to interact with Erik, and I doubt he is even aware of a possible romance between the translator and his daughter, so writing about Erik doesn't make much sense in the context.**

 **Are you guys surprised about what happened to the Elite? What were you expecting? Thanks so much for faithfully following the story! Read on and God bless!**

 **~SpaceNut**


	14. Chapter 14

"I recommend we begin with two scouting missions to gather surveillance, then move in with a small force to build a base camp. After that we can steadily increase our troop concentration until we are ready for a proper attack."

Aspen's jaw twitches. His eyes stay glued to the strategy map as he twirls a pawn between two fingers.

"Commander?" The general speaks again, only to be silenced by Aspen's raised hand.

Seconds pass. I can see Aspen's eyes scanning, calculating. Finally, he drops the pawn.

"Yes, to the surveillance. We need a better idea of what their resources are, but no to the camp. Not near them, any way. They have held the upper hand for far too long simply through the element of surprise. We cannot give them the advantage of proximity as well. We don't know what they are capable of."

The general's eyebrows rose.

"You believe they are capable of taking out a fully-armed camp?"

"I think we are in no position to make assumptions," Was Aspen's curt reply.

I look around the room. Perplexed faces. Wrinkled foreheads lined with thought, with worry. My best leaders preparing for war.

* * *

It's noon, and I'm walking from one recovery room to the next. From what I've just seen, Hale's hands were indeed thoroughly broken. Every bone, just like his report had said. They were both wrapped in casts up to the elbow. Though he could not move them, he seemed to be optimistically finding new ways to use his feet to finish tasks. A staff member stayed in his rooms at all times to be of assistance and his family was staying in the palace until Dr. Hendrix released him from medical attention.

I visit Ean next. The first time I came to see him, it was simply to apologize for all that he'd been put through and assure him that every possible course of action would be taken to bring him to a full recovery. When I'd placed my hand on his shoulder, he'd leapt away from as if I'd burned him.

His room is at the end of the hall, but before I make it there, I see Dr. Hendrix step out of his door. It is not until I am passing beside him that he registers me, looking up from his files.

"Your Majesty!" He nearly shouts in surprise, slipping into a clumsy bow, papers falling from his clutch.

I smile, and bend down to pick them up.

"No, your Majesty! Please, do not bother yourself with such things. I will collect them." The doctor squats down beside me, hastily shuffling the papers into an uneven pile.

"Being king does not excuse me from being humane," I laugh, handing him the papers I had collected.

In a way, I find him amusing. His franticness charmingly matches his cluttered lifestyle, but he is kind. Always kind.

"I did not mean to insinuate‒‒" I laugh again, hoping to put him at ease.

"Truly, Doctor. I do not mind. I was just going to visit Sir Ean and check on his progress. Perhaps you could give me your findings before I head in?"

He nods quickly, and stands. "Of course, your Majesty. Sir Ean has gone through a few sessions of cognitive behavioral therapy, which has thus far provided no change, but it's still early. We are trying to identify all his triggers right now in hope of developing some strategies to combat his fear. We are planning to partner him with a service dog this week, and hope to see some improvements."

I nod. "Thank you for working so hard on this, Doctor. Your investments in these young men are what makes a difference."

He bows his head humbly. "I am doing my job, Your Majesty."

"You are doing it quite well. Please update me about the Elite as we move forward. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll stop in and say hello to Sir Ean." I move to step towards the last door.

"Actually, I was hoping to speak with you about a different patient."

I don't move, don't nod, don't speak. I've been avoiding this conversation for a month.

"I am not anxious to approach you about this, Your Highness, but I feel it is my duty. Queen America has been comatose for three months as of today." He holds a thick chart in his hands under the fallen papers. I had assumed it was Ean's, but now I suspect otherwise.

"I know."  
He nods awkwardly, his thin hair flapping. "Yes, well…" He tugs on the collar of his lab coat. "As you also know, the passage of time means a smaller chance of awakening, so‒"

"I know."

He coughs over my interruption. "Right, of course. Under such circumstances, I thought it pertinent to share‒"

"The options, Dr. Hendrix. I am well aware of the options, and I will let you know if my opinion of the matter changes, but as of right now I am still standing by my former belief that the best course of action is to wait." I don't tell him that I had spent the night in a drunken haze a week ago. That the maids had to scrub out the stains of scotch in my office carpet, no questions asked. That I had admitted to myself she may nver come back to me.

Dr. Hendrix bows his head. "I understand that, Your Highness. It is not my wish to dissuade you. Your hope is quite phenomenal and I commend you for it."

Guilt sinks me like the capsized bow of a ship.

"I just do not wish for your hopes to be unfounded. That is all. My job is to ensure that you have all the facts you can. That being said, most patients under America's condition do not awaken at this stage."

I step away from him. It's one thing to know it in the back of my head, to have the thought feed on my nightmares at night. It's another thing completely to hear it out loud, my hidden monster coming to life.

"I thought it might bring you some peace of mind to consider what she would do if the circumstances were reversed. If you were the one unresponsive. And also, Your Majesty, what would _you_ want her to do?"

"Yes, well thank you for your insight. I really should go speak with Sir Ean before I get behind schedule, so if you will excuse me." I slip around him and turn the corner before he has time to bow.

* * *

Dr. Hendrix' words haunt me for days. Sleep becomes even more elusive than before. I sit in America's room, staring at her passive face, and whisper, " _What would you have me do, dearest?_ "

I suppose it's crazy that I hope for her mouth fall open and the answer to pour over me. It doesn't and I am left just as lost.

Three days pass with monotony. I am sitting in on strategy meetings, meeting individually with each of our recovering Elite, checking on the emotional stability of my own children despite the wavering of my own, and always, always, falling asleep in the chair beside America's bed. Sometimes the sleep does not actually come until around three in the morning. Sometimes it is broken up into fitful tossing that barely resembles sleep at all. Tonight, I simply sit.

The staff has brought in a much more comfortable chair as of late. I think they were trying to be kind at first by pretending I still slept in my own bed, ignoring my helplessness. Apparently my lost nights in the infirmary room had become inevitably clear to the whole palace, and they'd given up the ruse of pretending by accommodating me with a cushioned lounge chair, complete with a footrest. I sit in it now, my bare feet on America's bed, resting warmly against her sheet-covered thigh.

The question Dr. Hendrix posed has mercilessly gnawed me through. Devoured me. I feel raw and strangely small, like the world has grown ten times. Like I'm a child again who can't see over the bodies in front of me.

My toes curl around America's leg. I wish she'd swat them away with a wrinkled nose and tell me my feet are too sweaty.

It's two in the morning and I'm still wearing my suit, though the tie is a rumpled mess where it hangs loosely against my chest. I've been sitting here for an hour, silently, sometimes wishing the machines would hush so I could just hear her breathe.

But that's a terrible wish, I remind myself. If the machines stop, the breathing stops too.

I unravel the knot of my tie and drop it to the floor where the jacket soon joins it.

"Well, Ames," I whisper even though we're alone. "You're not missing much as far as the weather's concerned. It started raining at noon and hasn't stopped."

My fingers unlatch the watch around my wrist and drop it gently on top of the jacket.

"Eadlyn seems to holding up quite well, though maybe that's just wishful thinking on my part. She's been great though, a real trooper. I think she will be an excellent queen, America. I really do. She goes to Kile's therapy sessions whenever Dr. Bree will allow it. It's quite amusing actually, seeing our independent little girl doting on someone."

The buttons of my stiffly pressed shirt are next and I slip each one through its hole with precision honed over many years. "I called Ahren during my lunch. He's doing okay. I think being with Camille is good for him, and his new position as prince consort of France will certainly help distract him from painful thoughts of home." Shirt gone, belt next. I stand up.

"He's going to a gala tonight. He sounded pretty excited. I think he's loving the food there." I laugh to myself, tossing my belt into the forming pile of discarded clothes, unbuttoning my slacks, and kicking them to join the rest.

There's something relieving in the simpleness of my white cotton shirt and the loose grey boxers. I don't feel like a king. I feel like a man returning from a long day at work to find that his wife has already fallen asleep.

I lay down next to her carefully, on my side so I can still see her as I talk, and let my head drop against the pillow. The weight of my body causes the mattress to dip and America slips toward me, her shoulder bumping with the lightest touch against my chest. I can almost pretend she's leaning into me, except her arm does not wrap around my waist and the machines continue to _beep beep_. I kiss her shoulder nonetheless.

"I'm still thinking about it." I whisper against her sleeve. "Still thinking about what you would do, what I would want. But I think I made a breakthrough today. I think I might have figured _something_ out at least." I let out a deep breath and it blows against her hair like a gust of wind. "I realized how selfish I am."

It takes me a minute to work through the sudden dryness of my throat. I swallow before saying, "Even though I know how much you'd be hurting, even though I'm feeling that pain myself right now and have found it unbearable, I wouldn't want you to give up on me."

I let my face drop against her neck. She still smells like America. The maids use the same soap she's always used, and I let the scent wash over me.

"Because I know I'd be fighting with all I had to get back to you. Maybe I'd just need a little time. Maybe you need a little more time. But I know I'd never give up, I'd never leave you." I close my eyes. "I have to believe that. I have to believe you'd never leave me."

I don't say anything after that. There is nothing left in my mind except those words, and they repeat themselves over and over.

* * *

In my dream, water is everywhere. Waves are swallowing me up and a current tugs me down like a tangible hand wrapped tightly around my feet. I kick it away, kick, to stay above the surface, kick to catch a gulp of salt-sprayed air.

America is in my arms. We bob through the waves like wrecked buoy barely held together. She paddles her legs weakly, but her eyes are closed and she looks too pale. Her fingers cling to my middle, twisted into a shirt that I imagine would never dry. We gasp for air. Her red hair looks darker, almost brown, when it's this wet. It sticks to her face, and fans out in the water.

We keep kicking. My legs burn, and I stop, hoping that perhaps we can float over some smaller waves, but then we begin to sink like stones. America clings tighter, the only sign she's alive besides the harsh gasp of breath she takes before we're submerged completely.

I want to sink. I want to fall to the floor of the ocean and lay there with her in my arms. I want to find rest beneath the tumultuous waves and never face them again, joining the soft sand and resting on a bed of algae

But then my lungs scream for air. I feel the need for it, biting through me ferociously, burning up my chest. I can't do it. I can't endure the pain knowing my cure lies within reach, right above the waves.

My legs ache to continue the bliss of falling deeper and letting gravity take its course, but my anguished lungs win out. I break into the air sucking down oxygen as if I could eat it, as if it could be devoured. America follows suit in my arms.

Then, I see the impossible.

 _Land._

There's a sandy strip of earth shining in the distance. Light reflects off of it, as if I am staring at the sun itself.

I gasp for a whole different reason. For _hope_.

That's when it starts. America's voice. I see her chapped lips moving, and her soft voice speaks as my suffering legs try to sail us towards the refuge.

" _Don't give up on me_."

"Never." I murmur, pushing onward. "Never."

When I awake, I can see that my dream took over during the night.

My arms have drawn America close, huddling her against me. I carefully adjust some tubes, glad I didn't do anything stupid in my sleep like cut off her oxygen. I know better. I need to be more cautious, but it's hard to regret anything when I wake up with America so close. I kiss her forehead lightly, lingering, whispering.

" _Never_."

* * *

 **Guys. Guys, SYMBOLISM. Just saying. *wink* Okay, I know I have a lot of explaining to do, so let me start with what I believe to be a very valid excuse for this very late update: My laptop broke. I've been having problems with my cooling fan for quite a while now, and it finally pooped out on me. But now I'm up and running! So we are back in business. To make up for the delay, this chapter was longer than normal with extra Maxamerica. We can call it a Christmas present. :)**

 **I hope you all have had a wonderful holiday! Please let me know what you thought with a review! You all have been so kind and I wish I could thank you by name, especially the guests I am unable to PM. I will keep writing and I hope you keep reading! God bless.**

 **~SpaceNut**


	15. Chapter 15

"I saw it! I did! I swear!" A voice raises outside the thick walls of the main conference room.

My ears perk up, leaving behind the monotone conference call currently being held with our ambassadors to Spain. " _Osten_?"

"I need to tell him!"

I'm quick to catch the eye of Stavros before slipping out of my chair and making my way to the large ornate door at the opposite end of the room. I can hear Stavros's voice behind me. "The king will return shortly, but if we may proceed on the matters of…"

And I'm outside, in the hallway, looking upon the tear-streaked face of my youngest son. He runs to me immediately, thudding into my ribs and blowing me back a step. His little hands grip into the back of my suit jacket with fervency.

The guards posted look up in alarm.

"We were going to have a written message discreetly delivered to you, Your Majesty."The one to my right explains as they bow. "That is the protocol."

I nod. "I understand, but in the future, if any of my children come to you in such distress, let us agree that the matter is beyond the standard protocols."

I think I can see a blush reddening the guards ears.

"Of course, Your Majesty."

My hands are smoothing down Osten's hair. He's saying something into my shirt, but the words are utterly indistinguishable considering the rate at which he's speaking and the obstruction of fabric.

"I will return once the matter has been resolved." The guards bow again, and I shift Osten forward as we leave the hall, turning off into the nearest corridor. There's a cut-out windowsill overlooking the gardens, and I position myself on it across from him, my hand still softly combing through his hair when he looks up with wide eyes.

"She moved. I saw it. I swear, I did! Just a little, but it's true. It's true!" He's speaking too quickly each syllable blurs into the next. But I make out enough for my heart to start beating fasting, for my hand to still on his head, for my breath to stop.

"Mom?" I ask him.

 _America. America. America._

"I was in her room, just me, talking to her like I've seen you and Kaden do. I told her about how hard things were getting. How much I missed her. When I reached over to hold her hand, her fingers twitched. I promise, dad. They did. They really did." He's slowly leaned forward, growing closer with his growing excitement.

I reach out, grasp his little hand in mine, desperately needing something to hold on to‒something to ground me when I feel as though I've floated away.

 _America. America. America._

"I didn't want to leave." He squeezes my fingers back. "I thought maybe it was a sign that she would wake up. I shouted for a nurse, and when I told her, the room quickly crowded with more staff. There were so many, and the room was filling up, so I ran to find you."

He looks up now from where he's been staring at our hands, and I see the hope in his eyes. I can feel the same hope grasping at my heart. It feels like I've seen the island again‒the island from my dream.

"Dad? Do you think…" He doesn't say it.

I gulp, the movement of my adam's apple physically painful as I press down the emotion rising in my throat.

"Maybe, Osten. Maybe."

* * *

"Doctor Hendrix," I breathe. I don't really know what else to say.

He turns to face me. The glasses perched on his nose are askew. I see his movements starting to dip into a bow and raise my hand.

" _Please._ Not now. Please, just… just tell me…"

 _Tell me she's waking up. Tell me this was real. Tell me I wasn't wrong to hope._

He nods, picks up a chart, and moves to stand on the other side of America. I reach down and clasp my fingers in the ghost of a hold around her hand. Everything feels too fragile now.

"Prince Osten has said that he saw Her Majesty the Queen move her fingers, as I'm sure you already know. My staff immediately acted, and we have been scouring all our data to see if there are any signs of recovery showing." He opens his folder, pulls out some sheets that I have become familiar with in the recent months. Charts and scans and numbers. "It seems there may have been a peak in heart rate around the time Prince Osten saw the activity. It is a very minute change," He stops, raises his eyes to mine. I can see him measuring, considering, carefully choosing his next words. "But it's possible."

I can breathe again. I look down at America. It doesn't feel real. Hours, days, months‒I've waited. I've agonized in my hope. And now, suddenly, possibly, there could be an end in sight. There could be a better future. There could be an island in the ocean.

"We have increased our surveillance to ensure we don't miss a thing." He points up to the corner of the room. Attached to the ceiling is a security camera that I'm positive wasn't there before. Now there's one at the intersections of all four walls. "Please know, Your Majesty, that the queen's recovery is of great significance to all of us working here. We do not wish to ignore any possible signs, but since we have no proof of her resurgence, we do not want to base hopes on misconceptions."

 _In case Osten's wrong_ , I interpret. In case he was just seeing things. In case he's a little boy who wanted his mother back so badly, he imagined it.

It stings, and I want to blame him, blame Dr. Hendrix. I want to tell him he's wrong, that things will get better now.

But I can't, because he's right. I know he's right because I've wondered about myself before. There have been nights, late nights, where I've held America's hand in half delirium between sleep and wakefulness, fabricating in my mind the twitch of her lips or the squint of her eyes. But then I'd gaze closer in ludicrous hope to see that my drowsy mind was playing tricks on me. She would only breathe on in beeping harmony with that blasted machine. Her eyes would never open.

"I understand, Doctor." They are some of the hardest words I've ever spoken.

"But Maxon‒" I watch as his eyes bug out in horror. " _Your Majesty._ I apologize. Please, please forgive me. I meant no dis‒"

I interrupt his rushed apologies. "Maxon will do me just fine, Doctor. I think perhaps we have reached that level of familiarity, do you not?"

He blinks. "Yes, Your Majesty. I mean, Your Maxon. I mean…"

Sound bubbles from my throat. It takes me a second to recognize it as laughter. America used to tell me it was just wheezing.

"Well then, I think I will take a little respite from my day." I sit down in my designated chair. The conference call was quickly finished earlier today, after which I rushed through my next two meetings in a rather unkingly-like manner. "I'll keep my eye out for any further… possibilities."

I can't help the corner of my lip tugging up. I shouldn't get excited, shouldn't raise my hopes too high. But it feels so _good_. To look at her delicate hand and think, just maybe, she'll hold mine on her own accord again.

"Yes, of course." Dr. Hendrix dips his head down before heading towards the door, turning back before he leaves. "For the record," He pauses as if tasting a strange new food, " _Maxon,_ I hope he's right."

 _Me too._

* * *

 **Chapter fifteen, as promised. Not excessively long, but I wanted to get it out, and there will be more coming soon. Also, you know, I think this chapter carries a lot of important information despite its shortness… maybe.**

 **You guys have all been so kind! The feedback I continue to receive is truly amazing and inspiring. You make me want to write. Hearing how this story has affected you awesome readers makes it worth so much more than just a fun little fanfiction that came to mind. You guys make it worth it all the nights I stay up typing when I should be sleeping, and I hope you know that.**

 **Special shout out to Britney Giselle whose PMs and reviews never fail to brighten my day. Read on and God bless! Until next chapter…**

 **~SpaceNut**


	16. Chapter 16

Breakfast in the dining hall is going quite smoothly. Osten has yet to spill any of his filled-to-the-brim orange juice on his fine shirt, but that is only a matter of time.

Eadlyn is chatting excitedly with Kile sitting next to her. It's a sight for sore eyes. He began eating with us the week Dr. Hendrix cleared him from observation, and he fits right in. It doesn't hurt that the boys have known him as long as they've known Eadlyn.

When Kaden mentions something about his upcoming birthday and Eadlyn turns to ask about his preferred gifts, Kile moves to snatch a piece of bacon from her plate.

I recognize the action for what it is immediately. There's a heaping pile of bacon strips in the center of the table‒far more than we can imagine consuming. If Kile is hungry, there's plenty to sate him. He doesn't want the food. He wants her indignant look and a swat on the hand. He wants her grumbling over his thievery, commenting on his ungentlemanlike conduct. He wants Eadlyn, just being Eadlyn.

I smile.

Eadlyn throws a wadded up cloth napkin at his face.

All feels well. All feels hopeful, if only for the moment.

A knock on the room's stately doors echoes off the tiled floors, and the standing guards look to me for approval to allow the knocker entrance. I incline my head with a mix of dread and hope.

A messenger could be outside, waiting to alert me that America is showing signs of waking. Or that she is declining. Anticipated reports from our dispatched men could have arrived, alerting me as to what our next move would be with the Loyalists. If I'm lucky, May is on the other side of the doors ready for breakfast.

This is quite possibly the most unlikely scenario, considering it's just after eight in the morning, and May habitually sleeps in until at least eleven.

The gilded handles are pulled back to reveal one of the commanders I frequently meet with during my war council sessions. His face is grim.

He bows first, then speaks. "Your Majesty, we have news."

* * *

I don't have the capacity to feel dumb, despite the way my mouth is hanging ajar with no words to speak. I am too numb to care.

Aspen, on the other hand, seems to be feeling too much. He paces the room with energy foreign to me. His movements are quick and precise. When he reaches one wall, he turns on his heel and cyclically marches back to the other. He looks nearly inhuman in the roboticness of his movements.

I swallow again, which seems to be the only movement I am capable of, and try to speak. " _All of them?_ " The words hurt, scratching out of my dry throat.

The commander that came to me at breakfast nods. "If there are any survivors, we have lost all contact. Every transmitter was destroyed. The connection we had last night is dead."

I feel guilt settling heavily in my stomach, taking residence over my chest, weighing me down like sandbags tied to my limbs.

I force saliva into my mouth before trying to speak again. My tongue feels too dry. "Is there," I stop, and start again. "Can we retrieve the bodies?"

A general next to me speaks up. "If the explosion is as large as we have conjectured, I'm afraid there is little left to bring home."

 _The families left behind. Orphaned children. Widowed wives. Childless mothers._

My eyes squeeze shut on their own accord. So long I have gone without war. I ruled a nation of peace. I had escaped the bloodshed of Illeá's past. I am ill-equipped for the brutality that now tastes so bitter in my mouth.

Aspen's voice breaks into the painful silence with force. "I will go. I will take my men. This is enough." His eyes turn to me with unhidden fire. "Your Majesty, I ask for leave to handle this issue and head a mission into the Loyalist camp."

" _No_."

Then I blink, because the word was slipping off my tongue before I'd even thought it. I clear my throat and try again. "General Ledger, your leadership is best utilized here as the mind behind our military. We have well-trained men ready to execute your plans."

I can tell by the straining muscles in his throat that it is taking immense effort to steady his voice. "With the utmost respect, Your Majesty, I would like to point out that the tactic you speak of has failed us. I am not interested in losing any more men."

"Neither am I, General, but I fail to see how risking your life will accomplish that goal."

"Better mine than another troop of young men who still have a future to live out."

There's heat in my voice now, an angry twitch to my nose. " _Forgive me if I disagree._ "

Aspen's hands clench. "Forgive me if I _do not."_

The room is shifting uneasily, and I come to my senses long enough to announce. "You are all dismissed," before turning my eyes back to Aspen. He is staring at his tight fists. The rest of my military council moves with purpose out the steel door, and I wait for it to shut.

The room pools with tense silence once again, but that of an entirely different origin.

Neither of us move. I keep my seat at one end of the long table, and Aspen's feet stay glued to the floor across from me.

When a solid minute passes without him looking up from his shaking hands, I ask, "Care to tell me why your sudden death wish has chosen to make an appearance?"

He glares at me. It's not a malicious glare, more annoyed than anything else.

Nonetheless, I am not used to being met with many other expressions than passiveness or submission, and the anger bothers me.

"Or will you give me the silent treatment like a child?"

"Maxon, if you were not my king, I would be responding in a much more vulgar manner." The glare is slowly dissipating. "As it is, I'm afraid such words would result in rather unfavorable circumstances."

I scoff. "I don't care, Aspen. I would just like an explanation as to why I should send you under fire. We have an army. This is what they are trained for. This is their purpose. _Your purpose_ is to guide them."

"There is no better place for a leader than among his men. I shall guide them _beside_ them, not tucked safely within palace walls like a coward."

"I find it hard to imagine that Lucy is on board with this idea of yours."

He looks down at the table. A line has formed between his eyebrows, creasing with distress. "That is not relevant. I will serve my country to the best of my ability no matter what the cost."

 _Oh._

"What's going on with you two, Aspen?"

The line only deepens.

"Nothing of concern, Your Majesty."

 _So we are back to formalities._

"My wife has been in a coma for thirteen weeks. Whatever it is, I'm sure it can be much more easily fixed than my own marriage troubles." It should be funny, except it's not. At all. "And it's certainly not going to be better if I have to send Lucy a letter of condolence because of this nonsense you're speaking of now."

"Maxon, _please_." For first time he seems weak instead of maddened. His body sinks defeatedly into the chair before him, his head thrown over the back.

It's a look I know all too well. I can see his anguish as clearly as I know my own.

"Aspen?"

We are quiet again, but this time it's a building trust. I give him time to sort his words.

He breathes hard, blowing air between his lips with force. His hands wring through his hair and tug. Finally he looks up. His eyes are red.

" _Children_." He whispers. His lips don't quite close, hanging open slightly as if he can't bring himself to close them.

I sigh. Lucy and Aspen never started a family, this much was obvious, but it wasn't something we ever talked about. Whether or not the matter had been a conscious decision was never a question I felt comfortable raising. But now, from the agony that seemed to be bleeding out of Aspen, the answer was given.

"She wants children. She's always wanted children. She's had to watch everyone she knows and love welcome baby after baby, and never has she been given the chance to be a mother in her own right. _No_. Instead she's been a designated babysitter, a nurturer to all but her own." He takes a breath, and it wracks through his body like the rattle of shaking bones. "At first, it was enough. She was happy. We were comfortable, settled in to our own life together. _I was enough for her_." His red eyes shine. "But not now. Not anymore. I can't…"

"Aspen, I didn't‒"

" _I can't give her the life she wants!"_

From the tears in his eyes, the tremble of his lips, the unsteadiness of his body as he shakes in his chair… I know it's the first time he's said this out loud. He drops his head to the table. His hands fist recklessly into his hair.

I stand, walk, and kneel next him. I know whatever comfort I have to offer is inadequate. I know his pain is not something I can take away.

But I also know my own pain. And I know the helplessness of drowning, of having what you love most taken away.

So my hand finds his shoulder, and I offer what I can give him, knowing it's what he has done for me over and over the past weeks.

"Do what you have to do. I won't stop you. Just know that if she loved you at all, she will love you still. But you can't love her if you're gone."

It's a long time before he murmurs, "Maybe, though… maybe she could love another. Maybe she can still have the life she deserves."

"And if she doesn't _want_ another?"

His whole body is trembling. "Perhaps she can't really know until she's had the chance."

* * *

 **EEEEEEEK! Didn't I tell you I had plans for Aspen? They are finally making an appearance. Very little mention of America in this chapter, but it was a necessary sacrifice to develop more of the story. Ha, you guys probably thought the end was near. Keep trucking with me. There is so much more to come! Love you all and your continuous encouragement! Every review means so much and I truly take your words to heart. Read on and drop you thoughts by clicking on that little review button. What are your thoughts on Aspen and Lucy's relationship? God bless!**

 **~SpaceNut**


	17. Chapter 17

With each strategy meeting I grow more agitated. Aspen has a solid plan, of this I'm sure. There is no one else I would trust more with the upcoming mission.

Our men are well-equipped.

Our strategy is sound.

We've spent days looking for missed loopholes and patching up every possible flaw.

And so it happens that I do not fear so much for Illeà's men in uniform as I do for their commanding general.

Aspen is always the first one to show up in the war room, and certainly the last to leave. He has been perpetually carrying a mug of dark coffee. If that alone is not a sign of insomnia, the pale tinge of his skin is another clue. Oh, and let's not forget how purple-tinted circles have formed around his eyes. I would think he was sick if not for the energetic command with which he has taken ahold of the mission.

He and Lucy live only miles from the palace, making for an easy daily commute. But lately I have wondered how often he goes home and how often he spends the night in his designated palace quarters.

It is all together worrying.

We spend nine days planning the assault, orchestrating everything down to a tee. I am always careful with my words, but I cannot help probing Aspen with concerns—even if his replies are sparse in both syllables and feeling.

" _How are things at home?"_

" _Fine."_

" _Is Lucy upset that you're leaving?"_

" _She understands."_

" _Perhaps, if you'd like, she can stay in the palace until your departure."_

" _She's comfortable at home."_

There's a part of me that wants to meddle, to go see Lucy, to ask her what _on God's green earth_ is going on with her husband. But Aspen is an adult, and I do not wish to overstep the boundaries of our friendship.

* * *

It is not until four in the morning, as the specialized forces are loading into the deploying vehicles, that I realize how truly wrong I was to stay silent.

The men are already in full combat dress: all black, bullet-proof vests, face masks, and sturdy boots. The last of the supplies is being loaded. The stars are still out and the palace is quiet.

At least, it was, before the high scream are heard from down a hall.

With shocking speed, the men turn into a security formation. Guns swing into hands in seconds. I feel myself cocooned within a breathing wall of shields before I have time to blink. I hear the clicks of gun safeties.

Then there is a woman hurtling herself before us. I can only see glimpses through the men surrounding me, but they quickly dissipate as if a blaring alarm has been shut of. I realize why soon enough.

It's Lucy. She's wearing a pale blue nightgown, her feet are bare, and she has thrown her flailing body at Aspen who stands frozen with his hands by his sides.

Her high-pitched wails slowly dissolve into comprehensible words.

" _Stupid man!_ You stupid _, stupid_ man _!"_ Lucy's hands bullet wildly into his chest, but Aspen's body absorbs the blows without a budge. "How could you leave? _How_? How… _stupid…"_ Her words drown off as she looks up into his face, taking it forcefully between her hands, and pulling it down eye level with her own.

I can see Aspen's face—tight-lipped, hard, and far too gone.

Lucy's chest is heaving and her fingers tremble against his cheeks as if she ran all the way from her bedroom.

"I knew you were brave soldier," Her thumbs glide down to rest on his pressed lips, "but I never took you for a fool." She drags one thumb lightly, loosening his bottom lip beneath her touch, but he only turns his head away.

His voice is quiet then, and if not for the untouchable silence that early mornings bring, I doubt I could hear him. "You shouldn't be here, Luce."

She only gets angrier, reinforcing her grip around his jaw and turning his face back to her. "Don't you dare. Don't you _dare_ get in that truck and leave me, Apsen." She looks so pale in the night against the backdrop of the black-clad men, her skin like white and glowing. It makes her seem even smaller. "I don't care what sort of heroic message you're trying to send! I need you here!"

He squints hard, and his hands come up to rest over hers, slowly relinquishing her grip. She leans against his chest, her chin tipped up to search his eyes.

"I'll be fine." He murmurs. "Don't you worry."

"But _I_ won't be fine." Her eyes are shining. It's either reflection of the full moon, or repressed tears, but I'm quite confident in my guess.

He leans down a bit closer, closes his eyes and breathes. "You cry enough with me here, Lucy. Don't cry when I go."

She's gasping from exertion, and I can only assume, the effort to hold back sobs. "I don't cry for myself, you idiot. I cry for _us_. I grieve the life we imagined together. But if your reckless mind has conjured some ridiculous idea that I could be happier with any other life," her voice breaks with a rattling breath. Tears track quickly down both of her cheeks. Her voice softens like velvet, turns to a whisper. " _How could you think that?"_

Lucy presses her face into his neck, gripping him as hard as her small hands can. Aspen's stiff form melts at her tears, folding around her like crumpled paper. He kisses her hair, touches the small of her back with ghosting fingers. "I'll miss you," He whispers.

" _No!"_ She shouts, and it echoes off the palace's stone walls. " _Please_ , no. Don't, Aspen." She presses up on her tiptoes, her lips fiercely claiming his in desperation.

Aspen's hands slide to her hips. They look monstrous settled against her fairy like figure, dwindled by his size. It's only one second that passes. I can see his acquiescement in the tilt of his head, falling to her will.

But he pulls back abruptly, lifting her by the waist, and marches over to me. His hands press her into mine. Then he steps away, salutes, and begins to take stiff steps back to the military vehicles.

Lucy seems shocked frozen in my arms, but I think quickly enough to yell after him. "General Ledger!" He turns with eyes cast to the ground. "I think you are making a terrible mistake."

Aspen bows his head slightly. "Please keep her safe, Your Majesty."

They leave after that—pile into the departing caravan with salutes. We watch the men drive away, and Lucy cries against my ribs. She doesn't reach my shoulder.

It's too early in the day for a heart to broken.

* * *

I've never been good with weeping women, but years with America has taught me a thing or two.

I escort Lucy back to one of the palace's more private parlors and send a maid working the night shift to bring a coffee tray. We fall into cushioned chairs, facing one another, and sit in silence.

When the maid returns, I realize we have yet to exchange a single word. Lucy's cheeks are still streaming with silent tears, though her face does not portray any of the turmoil I saw earlier. Her hands clasp neatly in her lap, shoulder pressed back straight.

I recognize in her the same spirit I've come to find in the wives of my guards and soldiers. They are women—loving, passionate women, yes. But they are strong, too. They know a sort of peaceful confidence uncommon in most. Lucy, I think, is a soldier in her own way.

I clear my throat. It has gone dry from lack of use. "Coffee?"

Lucy's eyes glance away from her folded hands. "Yes, that would be lovely." Her voice doesn't even waver.

I dismiss the maid and pour two cups myself, asking how she likes hers. Once we are both settled with hot mugs in our hands, I ask the question that has bothered me most.

"He never told you about the mission?"

Lucy's gaze is lost in the cup's contents. "No." She blows lightly at the rising steam. "A friend of mine, a wife of one of Aspen's mine, called early this morning. She knew they would be leaving now and thought we could find some mutual comfort in one another." Lucy shakes her head. "Poor girl. I don't think I even hung the phone up before I was running to the car."

Guilt descends on me with a heavy weight.

" _Oh, Lucy_." I hang my head. All the meetings flash through my mind. All the times I questioned him. "I should have known. I'm so sorry."

Lucy looks up in surprise. "Your Majesty?"

"I tried. I did, truly. I told him to stay. I told him he was being ridiculous. He assured me that you knew, that you were fine with his decision." It all seems so utterly foolish now. "I should have known. I'm so sorry."

"Do not feel any responsibility. Once Aspen is decided upon something, his mind is not easily turned."

We lapse into silence. It is here we stay for the day. I can't find it in myself to leave her while the tears stream steadily, but her eyes seem to harden.

It is nearly dinner time when another messenger arrives at the door. I cannot blow off all my business for the day, but I've had the necessities brought into the parlor. We partook in a light breakfast, nibbling off bits of cheese and bread with nonexistent appetites. I've been reading through letters and deliberating over the newest tax set to be presented before Council in the coming week. Lucy knits. We share a companionable silence that speaks more than words can. I offered for her to have a room prepared, but she denied the gesture, and asked instead to stay in Aspen's palace quarters. I felt somehow mindless for even making another suggestion.

The sky is just starting to gray outside the windows when a young man knocks on the door. I shoot Lucy a glance and with a soft voice say, "I apologize for all the intrusions."

She blushes. "Truly sir, I do not expect to monopolize your company. I understand that you have more important responsibilities."

I frown. Everything feels so inadequate: words, tears, apologies. "Lucy, he's my best friend. You're his wife."

As if this explains everything, she offers a small smile.

I look towards the door and beckon him to enter. "If it is not urgent news, please let it be left for tomorrow." I nod at him, and look back to the papers spread across my lap.

To my surprise, he stays.

"Your Majesty, it is most pertinent."

My eyebrows raise without thought. "What is it then?"

"The Queen is awake."

* * *

I don't remember how I get here, but I'm here nonetheless, pushing through the door into a room filled with too many people when only one matters. Nurses are checking screens, marking charts, and readjusting her IV. Dr. Hendrix is beside her bed, waving a finger before her eyes.

She's not following his directions, Her eyes lock onto mine the second I can catch them between the bustle. Their startling blue color has not been diminished by the many days they've been closed. It makes my heart stutter in a delightfully painful way.

" _America._ "

I push through. I don't know what I'm doing or thinking. Nothing registers except that she's _awake_ and I _need_ to reach her. I _need_ to be by her side, _need_ to look at her eyes, _need_ what I've been praying for these past months.

I get to her bed before I stop. My hand is already reaching out to touch her cheek. She's looking at me with nearly as much awe as I am her.

My fingers halt their progress in the air. My knees hit the bed in their launch towards her, descending to rest on the tiled floor so that my gaze is level with hers. I swallow hard, because the devastating thought occurs to me: _Shall I wake up soon?_

I wonder if my mind has betrayed me yet again. Could it truly be this cruel? Did it mean to torture me? My sweetest dreams seem like vengeful nightmares in the morning light.

America's eyes are pleading with me, and despite my creeping doubts, I allow my thumb to stroke over her cheekbone.

It's all too much.

I turn to ask someone, anyone, to confirm the truth for me. The nurses have cleared away. Only Dr. Hendrix remains in the room, offering a small smile.

I gulp down hard and lick my lips. "Is she—?" I don't even know what I'm trying to ask anymore.

"Your Majesty, Queen America has breached the comatose state previously holding her unconscious. Naturally, her vocal cords are weak from disuse and we will need to schedule daily therapy to rebuild her muscle mass. It is best for Her Majesty to remain under medical observation while she regains her strength so that we can prevent any dangerous relapses, but by all means, I believe she can soon begin a road to recovery."

Propriety demands than I say something— _anything_ , but I only gape at him in blissful awe.

He bows his head. "She will need rest. I would not be surprised if she is already feeling worn down from the nurses' attentions." At this he glances over at America, and I notice the sleepy dip of her eyelids. "But I believe she might be up to seeing you." He offers a knowing smile before slipping out the door, and I'm alone with her.

I turn back, my hands gliding over her in shock. It feels as though she will slip through my fingers like vapor, and I'm unexplainably afraid of her disappearing in my arms. My fingers touch her cheeks, her lips, the slope of her neck, gliding over her collarbones to her shoulders.

Her eyes glisten with wet tears, and I'm overcome with worry, " _No,_ oh darling, please no. Don't cry. Don't do that." My hands return to her cheeks, running carefully over the pale skin beneath her eyes. I can see the mirthful tease of her eyes and the twitch in her lips. Years of practice have taught me well.

I reach a hesitant hand to my own cheek and feel the wetness beneath my palm. I smile full and brokenly. My voice drops to a coy whisper. "It's okay when I do it, of course."

Her hands are folded over her stomach. I see them fidget weakly from the corner of my eye and immediately grasp them in my own, pressing them to lips one at a time.

"Just relax," I murmur, though even as I say it my heart is pounding with the speed of an accelerated engine against the cage of my chest. "Please. I'm sure everything seems so overwhelming at the moment, but we will have plenty of time to speak of all that's happened." The thought is like a warm gulp of tea suffusing in my stomach. _She's here with me. She's come back to me, and we have all the time we will ever need._

I kiss her forehead, her lips. All is soft and gentle. She closes her eyes under the touch. Her fingers clench tighter in mine, and when I pull away, her lips shake.

My joy begins to bleed away as I'm seized with alarm. "What is it? No, no, I'm sorry. Don't answer that. Don't talk. Um—" Fear clutches me as I realize I have nothing besides my intuition to guide me. I look quickly over my shoulder, peer at the door. Perhaps I should run for Dr. Hendrix or send—"

Her fingers squeeze mine and interrupt my franticness. Her trembling lips are smiling. Relief washes over me just as quickly as the terror came. I do not believe I have ever felt so much in so little time. She looks at me with steady, if slightly dreary, eyes. I stare back at utter attention.

Her lips open again and a rasp of her beautiful voice is produced. I frown immediately, my thumb fluttering over her bottom lip.

"Please, America. Please, I know there must be much on your mind and much you wish to say, but we shall find time soon. When you're ready."

She smiles at me patiently, and tries yet again to speak. This time, I at least attempt to listen if she is set on the act. I can see from the look in her eyes that she's asking for something, imploring me, but her voice is like a scratched record.

I decide to play the guessing game. "Water?" I can't help myself. My fingers continue their flitting journey over her skin, assuring that she's there, that she's _real_. They rub circles over her temples.

Her lack of response is a negative.

"Are you cold? Hungry? Is the room to bright?"

Nothing. My mind works overtime, searching for any answer.

"Here," I say, placing her index finger on the center of my upturned palm. "Trace the letters for me."

The feeling of warmth distracts me as her finger begins to move. I want little else than to close my eyes and memorize the feel of her skin moving over mine, but I quickly shake myself from euphoria and focus on the task.

S.

I.

Her finger is slow and stilting, dragging delicately.

N.

I wait in anticipation and confusion, trying to guess her meaning before she uses up anymore precious energy.

"G?" I ask in surprise. Her resulting smile is enough confirmation to my guess, but I raise my eyebrows. "Sing?" I close my hand around hers, then weave our fingers together. With a teasing chuckle I quip, "The doctor did not mention amnesia, darling. I'm afraid _you_ are the singer. Certainly not I."

Her chest shakes slightly, and I recognize it for a laugh.

I rack my mind in hopes of finding a meaning behind her words.

The memory hits me with full force. Its melancholy tinge contrasts painfully with the joy I feel so keenly now.

"You mean the lullaby?"

Her eyes light up.

I grin. "So you've heard all my desperate proclamations as I held vigil at your side?" I kiss her knuckles and hold them to my chest. "My, your husband is a romantic sap, is he not?"

There is nothing better than this: to make her laugh again, to see the shining blue of her irises instead of her closed eyelids, to feel the deliberate press of her skin against mine.

"Anything you ask, my queen."

So as I did before, I lift her carefully. I am conscious of the tubes and wires that I once abhorred, but now feel a particular gratefulness towards. I raise her back first, bending over her, leaning her head into my chest, and slipping an arm beneath her shoulder blades. My other hand sinks beneath the sheets to wrap around her bare knees. She falls against me, but this time her hand moves rest over my heart instead of hanging limply.

It is glorious.

I ease down into the chair, pulling her close, and I sing the words as best I can though my voice cracks and grumbles.

" _Stars shining bright above you_

 _Night breezes seem to whisper I love you_

 _Birds singing in the sycamore tree_

 _Dream a little dream of me"_

I feel the barely-there touch of her thumb, spinning daintily over my chest. The words flow without thought. I've heard them on her lips so many times. By the time I finish, her head has drooped against my shoulder, her eyes sliding shut. For the first time in a long time, her sleeping form does not pierce me with anguish.

" _Sweet dreams til sunbeams find you_

 _Sweet, sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you_

 _But in your dreams, whatever they be_

 _Dream a little dream of me_ "

I kiss her lips, tasting the lingering salt of my own tears, and draw my hand down to curl through her hair, pressing her closer. Her chest rises and falls with each slow breath. I rest my forehead over hers, closing my eyes.

I dream about the sea. The waves are easy and calm. America and I float, surrounded by the sweet smell of salt in the air, our hands grasped between us. The water lulls with a gentle push. And then we find ourselves drifting from ocean to sand. We've reached the island. She grins up at me, rolling closer until we're as tangled as seaweed, and she sings lullabies like a siren in my ear.

 ** _ **Hey guys. So, I updated. Tell me of your feels. I've been keeping this chapter tucked away in the back of my mind since I first started the story, and I've been dying to get it out, but I suppose patience is a virtue, and yada-yada-yada. :) You are all so encouraging and lovely and many other synonyms for those words, and I hope this made you squeal with fuzzy feelings. I tried to post this quickly and late at night, so please forgive any errors I missed before posting. I love your reviews! God bless.**_**

 ** _ **~SpaceNut**_**


	18. Chapter 18

_Seagulls cry to each other. My feet are grainy with sand like dough rolled through flour._

"They really are a bit disgusting."

" _Shut up,_ Osten."

 _America's siren song pitches and sways with a wavelike timbre. The water behind us sweeps the beach with foam._

"I mean, really. Normal people don't actually sleep like that. It's uncomfortable, and bound to cause neck aches in the morning."

"I said, _shut up._ "

"And mom is totally drooling on his shirt."

Our island—gone. Our ocean—gone. But as my eyes cracked open to dimmed light, I found something else. Something good.

"Good morning, father." Kaden sat at the head of America's bed with his feet on the ground. He looked formal and well put-together, as was customary of him. But he couldn't hide the glow in his eyes or the hope in his voice.

I laughed. "Indeed it is."

Osten laid on his stomach, sprawled at the foot of the bed, his right arm tangled through the metal frame. He grinned devilishly. "We've been watching you sleep."

"Osten!" Eadlyn scolded from the seat at America's bedside. "It wasn't like that!" She turned to me with big eyes. "They told us last night that mom woke up, so we came down to see her, but when we peeked inside the room and saw you two bundled up and dozing, we thought we should wait until morning to come in. So we're here now." She lifted her leg and dug a punishing foot into Osten's thigh. "It wasn't _like that_."

Osten yelped in response.

And then it was silent as all of our eyes drew to the elephant in the room. The sleeping—and sure enough, drooling—elephant in the room.

Her hand that had been pressed over my heart the night before had fallen to rest against her legs, draped over me and dangling off the side of the chair. I kissed the crown of her head and smiled.

"Yeah," I whispered. "She's awake."

The silence broke with soft laughter. We shared secret smiles like we knew it along, like we never doubted. Their eyes were shining. Osten was the first to stand up.

"Last night, she really…" He took a few steps, bobbed on his heels. "Did you-? Did mom-?" He grinned to himself sheepishly.

"She was awake when I came in, though very tired. Dr. Ashlar believes she is going to make a full recovery. Her vocal chords are weak, so she can't talk much now, and her muscles need to build back up." I smiled at him, at each of them. "But she's back. Mom's back."

She breathed softly against my chest, leaving a wet spot where her open lips pressed against my wrinkled shirt. It was incredibly endearing, and I was already anticipating the teasing words I would say when she woke again.

Eadlyn came next, throwing her arms around Osten's shoulders. He made a face at the contact, but didn't budge. Dare I say it, he might have even leaned closer to her.

"Good." She said softly. All of our words seemed to fail us.

We had breakfast brought to us on a couple rolling carts from the kitchen: orange juice, crepes, buttery croissants, and a plate of strawberry tarts, just in case America woke up with an appetite.

Osten placed a pillow at my feet and ate, sitting on the ground, with his head leaning softly on America's dangling feet.

"I want to take her outside," Kaden said from his place on the bed. "When she wakes up, we should all go into the gardens. She must miss the sunshine."

"And the smell of flowers," Eadlyn added. "This room has the stench of too much sanitizer, like stale alcohol and starched sheets. She'd like to sit by the rose bushes again."

I nodded, curling my finger through the ends of her hair gently. "I think she'd love that."

But she didn't wake up.

Breakfast passed slowly and peacefully as we all relished in the fresh joy of America's waking. We took our time, talking in soft voices and nibbling at the food from the carts, but our eyes were all watching carefully for America's eyelashes to blink sleepily open.

We kept waiting.

Morning was starting to wilt away into midday, and nothing had changed. I explained to them how tired America had been when she woke up, how her body wasn't used to operating on a normal routine. We have to be patient, I told them.

But at noon America was still dozing, though no longer in my arms. Dr. Hendrix came in with two nurses to check-up on the Queen.

"Don't worry yourselves," He said after a bow. "I know how anxious you all must be to have Queen America up and chatting and laughing once again. The palace has dearly missed her presence. She will need some time though, before all returns to normal."

Dr. Hendrix instructed me to return America back to that awful white bed so the nurses could check her blood pressure. I missed the heat of her body against mine immediately, like walking away from the fireplace on a Winter night, and resolved myself to holding her hand instead. My feet were shaking beneath me.

"Right," I nodded at his words. "Yes, of course, but shouldn't she…" My eyes flitted cautiously over my children, who suddenly reminded me of vulnerable kittens waiting to be claimed at the pound. "When do you expect she will be fully conscious again?"

Dr. Hendrix pressed two fingers against America's wrist, feeling her pulse, as we spoke. The nurses that accompanied him were replacing the pillows under America's head with fresh ones.

"It's important to remember that every comatose case is different. America was surprisingly lucid when she first awoke yesterday. Often, patients will wake and show little to no response to outside stimulus like voices or physical touches. Queen America seemed quite aware of her surroundings, even if she was not able to respond to them as strongly as she might have under normal circumstances. In fact, her awareness was so clear, I believe she may have experienced lucid moments before yesterday. It seems more logical."

Osten was tugging on my sleeve then with eager hands. "Her hand!" he exclaimed. "I told you! I _told you_ it moved!"

I brushed a distracted kiss over the top of his head. "Is that possible? Could she have been coming around before we realized it? Wouldn't someone have noticed?" And by someone, I meant _me_. _I_ should have noticed. _I_ should have been able to tell, should have felt it in the sinew between my bones and the cartilage within. A bitter acid was crawling up my throat as if my stomach was revolting. I knew this feeling. _Guilt._

Dr. Hendrix didn't seem to pick up on my pain, nor did he exhibit similar symptoms. "Typically we might notice a significant change in heart rate, and waking patients sometimes act rashly when they first come to: thrashing their limbs, trying to pull out their IV, and the like. They're confused and disoriented. I didn't see any of that in America. She simply…" He drawled off with furrowed eyebrows, "Woke up."

I don't like this, don't like it at all. She had been waking up. She had been slowly coming back to me, and I hadn't noticed? I hadn't been watching closely enough?

No. Impossible.

But the acid was gnawing at my throat, corroding away the muscle and tissue.

I brushed her fingers carefully.

 _I'm sorry,_ the touch said. _I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry._

 _"_ It's difficult to say," Dr. Hendrix went on, but I already felt like a prisoner condemned to the noose. "Conditions like these are so fragile and unpredictable. She could simply be an unordinary case."

I had been losing hope. I had been turning away, closing myself in. All the while she was fighting her way back to me. While I was drinking an entire bottle of God-forsaken scotch like a wretched fool, she might have been fluttering her lashes, reaching for my hand. If I'd been more dedicated—

" _Stop._ " Eadlyn's arms were around me, tightening from behind to squeeze over my chest like a straightjacket protecting me from myself. "Stop all those awful thoughts right now. It's not your fault. None of it is your fault."

I looked up in surprise. How did she know?

"When Kyle was taken, when _all_ of them were taken, all I could think about was what I could have done. All the different ways I could have prevented that attack. Could have protected them. Could have brought them back." She rested her cheek on my head. "But 'could have's' never saved anyone. Mom woke up. That's what matters. We should be thankful, not critical of ourselves."

The guilt didn't disappear. That acrid taste still teased my throat, and I could feel the noose's weight around my neck. But her words were truth. America, my America, had come back to me. I shouldn't taint that precious gift with my regrets.

Eadlyn pressed a kiss to my hair like she used to do as a child. She pulled her hands away to rest on my shoulders, and I wrapped my free fingers around one of her small hands. "What a lovely queen you will make, my Eady."

" _Mmm_." There was a sweet, soft sigh of agreement from the bed, and I looked up eagerly to see blue eyes.

" _Mom!"_ It was a jumbled chorus of three voices, and then three heads were pressing into America's outstretched arms, quick but gentle, nestling like baby birds.

They settled in as comfortably as they could, snuggling up like they hadn't in years. America's movements were still weak and slow, but her arms stretched around them to rest on Eadlyn and Kaden's back, with Osten nestled in between. I'd lost the comfort of her hand in mine, but it was something I could spare for such a precious moment.

America was crying again, such beautiful, motherly tears. If the hiccups that shook our children's backs were any indication, their tears were falling freely as well.

America closed her watery eyes, nuzzling their heads with wet cheeks. Her lips trembled, with emotion or unspoken words. I wasn't sure which. Maybe both.

I reached out, pressed a hand to Eadlyn's back, as she was splayed closest to me on the bed.

America didn't speak, and Osten was all blubbering kisses, but Kaden and Eadlyn took turns voicing their thoughts:

 _"_ _I missed you."_

 _"_ _I love you."_

 _"_ _It was so hard without you."_

 _"_ _Don't go again."_

 _"_ _I was so scared."_

This all made America cry harder, but I could see the relief in her eyes. She was holding her babies- _our_ babies, cradled softly.

Dr. Hendrix stood at the foot of the bed. The accompanying nurses had already filtered out the door. He smiled a quiet smile. "All looks well, my Queen." His voice was low, like he didn't want to break the glassy, fragile moment. "We will be trying to build up your strength and vocal muscles soon, to have you up and about, and speaking normally once again."

America offered a faint nod in reply, and with a bow of my head, Dr. Hendrix left the room as well.

I reached back out for America, missing the feel of her warmth beneath my hand, but considering the dog pile of children that had loaded onto the bed, I had to settle with fingers wrapped around her sheet-covered thigh.

"We need to get you out of here, Ames." I murmured. "No more white walls, white sheets, and white beds. Back to our room. Back to the family wing, the third floor. I want to put you where you belong, bring you home."

America's eyes twinkled at me over three downy heads of hair.

" _Soon."_ I promised her.

I haven't read The Crown yet, guys! So no spoilers in reviews, pretty pretty please! I'm sure my story is not cannon with what Kiera Cass has written, especially considering Adrift at Sea is more Maxon-central instead of Eadlyn, but I hope it's still an enjoyable read! I've missed you guys, and writing, so much! I know people always say, "I've been busy", but truly, truly _I have!_ It's all been a very good busy, so no complaints from my little corner, other than my booked calendar has not given me much time to work on this story, and I hate to keep you all waiting. Thanks for bearing the wait so patiently! I hope you liked this lovey-dovey family chapter I wanted to get in before plot development strikes again. Love you lots, and God bless!

~SpaceNut


	19. Chapter 19

I was grumpy. And for good reason.

No one was listening to me. The clouds ignored my wishes. The sun seemed to have its own agenda. Even the birds I had hoped to hear sing were rejecting my song requests.

I stood in the garden as the sun sunk closer to the horizon. My knuckles were fierce from the grip I held on the iron gate around the palace rose bushes, and my hair sopping over my forehead like a wet rag. It only felt natural to growl.

There was a one hundred percent chance of rain, and that meant a one hundred percent downpour of _disappointment_.

* * *

 _You're looking awfully soggy today, King Cranky Pants._

Kaden had suggested that we bring the palace's computer into America's recovery room as an easier means of communication. Until America had retrained the muscles in her hands to hold and manipulate a pencil, writing would be too strenuous. Her habit of tracing on my palm was certainly satisfying to me, as the lilting draw of her fingers was a touch I'd craved too long, but the computer saved time. She only had to put enough pressure behind her touch for the lettered keys to bend beneath her fingers. Dr. Hendrix said it would even be a good Segway into more intensive therapy.

At that particular moment though, I was having my reserves against the idea.

 _King Cranky Pants_ certainly wasn't my favorite way to be addressed.

I moved to sit on America's bedside, but at my first step, she threw me a wary glance.

Ah, yes. The dripping wet clothes.

"America," I murmured. There was an uncharacteristic whine in my voice.

 _Go change._

"America, please. I'm sad." I shuffled closer. The white marbled tiles shined slickly where I left a snail-like track. "Don't tease. Make me feel better like the supportive queen you are."

Her laugh didn't quite bubble out like it used to, but there was no mistaking that indignant snort of hers.

I leaned over, bopping her on the nose with my finger. She wrinkled it in a way that made her whole face scrunch up.

 _You can have all the support you want when you're dry._

I leaned down, pressed my wet forehead to hers despite her attempts to wriggle away, and placed a sloppy kiss on her lips before pulling away. "As you wish, my Queen. I shall return for you."

She was smiling softly when I slipped out the door.

* * *

It had been three days since our family reunion. America slept away most of the hours in a day, though each morning she seemed stronger. She was starting to develop a routine that consisted of breakfast with the family, check-ups and speech therapy with Dr. Hendrix, long afternoon naps, and evenings of short visits and small dinners. Mrs. Singer, Kenna, May and Gerad had all come as quickly as time allowed, all anxious questions and relieved tears. The kids tended to hole up in her room, whether she was awake or asleep. Osten would sit on the end of her bed while she napped, drawing her pictures. Kaden would retreat there to study. Eadylyn ate her lunches in the chair at America's bedside. They couldn't stay away, and I was the guiltiest of them all.

After meetings I'd sweep myself away from the board room, barely taking time to snag a change of clothes from my bedroom on the third floor and run a toothbrush over my teeth, before bunkering down in America's room. She expected me now, instructing her last nurse of the night to leave the bedside lamp on when she turned out the lights. Then around nine o'clock, I'd arrive to find an America fighting the tugs of descending sleep. By that time she was always droopy eyelids and catlike yawns, but she waited for me. My suit came off, my cotton pajama pants came on, and I'd slip under her covers with arms reaching to encase her. She'd drift away to her dreams within minutes. I liked to stay up and indulge myself, letting my fingers find the pulse beneath her wrist, my eyes study the telltale rise and fall of her chest. _She's alive_ , I'd tell myself. _She's alive, and she's mine again._

Each day brought new improvement, slow but certainly there. America was able to stay awake for slightly longer periods of time. Her facial expressions didn't seem quite so subdued. The pressure of her fingers became tighter when she held my hand. She was becoming more alert of her surroundings, and the joy it all brought me was poisoned with a guilty venom.

I feared the question she was sure to ask soon enough. She'd start to wonder, start to put the pieces together and realize one was missing. I was trying to be gutsy, to figure out how to tell her before she voiced the question, but the days were passing so peacefully. I feared one tap could break the glass, and I didn't want the shards to rain down.

* * *

When I returned, freshly showered and dried, with warm clothes on to fight off the lingering chill of rain water, America met me with half-lidded eyes. Her smile was drowsy and inviting. She eyed my thermal shirt and stiff pants with a curiosity softened by sleepiness.

I held up the cotton pajama pants in my hand. "I'll change once I've warmed up."

America scooted from the bed's middle to make room for me, but I just pulled her closer once I'd settled in, my arms finding her waist.

The computer was set up on a rolling cart and stationed on the opposite side of America's bed within easy reach. I listened to the steady tap of keys while she conducted a message. I was buried hair-deep in her neck. Her skin was luxuriously warm. My cold toes curled against her feet.

She kicked me away, dislodging me from the embrace and throwing a look over her shoulder.

Oh, she didn't need to type anything. I knew exactly what that meant.

"But my feet are _freezing_ , Ames." The arch of my foot teasingly grazed her calf.

She held my eyes with the glare of an avenging angel out for blood.

I smiled.

"But, _my dear_ ,"

 _Oof._

I hadn't thought she could kick that hard, given the whole three-months-in-a-coma recovery, but clearly I was wrong.

"I surrender, my Queen. My feet may be lost to frostbite by morning, but if you wish it, so it must be." I was already sinking back against the pillows, positioning my feet a fair distance away from hers, but reclaiming the rest of her in my arms.

One small hand wrapped over my own while the other could be heard typing away. I looked over her shoulder to see her words.

 _What's bothering you? And why the drenched clothes?_

I sighed, letting my hot breath skate over her neck in hopes of making goosebumps appear the way they once did. "You'll think me quite silly, I'm afraid."

No gooseflesh. I couldn't let that discourage me. There were other methods, of course.

 _Too late for that._

Oh, she was truly asking for it now.

"Sillier, then. The weather is simply dismal today. I'd been hoping to get you out of this little hellhole and into the fresh air for an evening stroll." I dropped a soft kiss below her ear. "Take you to the gardens." Another at the hairline along her neck. "Smell the roses." My nose glided over her delicate skin, down to her shoulder.

America hummed, her fingers reaching out for the computer keys again. I listened diligently as they clacked before dropping a needy kiss in the hollow between her shoulder bones.

The rhythmic tap of the keys faltered. America breathed heavily.

I tightened my hold on her waist, pulling her closer still, refusing to loosen my lips from that perfect juncture. The hand that hadn't been holding mine before tunneled carefully into my hair, fingers gently teasing against my scalp. I sighed in relief at the feeling.

"Terribly unthoughtful, that rain. Ruining all my plans for the evening." I spoke the words into her skin, making sure America felt more than heard what came from lips. "Now look at me. A miserable fellow, truly. Nothing to do." I pushed up higher on my elbow, rising to lean over America's lip with a boyish smile.

She swallowed, eyeing my carefully. Cautiously. Our noses bumped gently.

"Perhaps, my Queen, you might take pity on a disappointed man and allow him a kiss?" I caught her eyes. "Yes, I think that might appease me. A kiss. I know it's a bit big of me to ask, but I've heard you can be quite gracious, my—"

 _Mmmph._

It had just been teasing. It'd been so long since I could get a reaction from her: since I could watch her eyes narrow, or light up, or crinkle with a laugh, or crackle with heat. I wanted to see that my touch still made her feel the way it did before, that I hadn't ceased to make her heart race a fraction of the speed she made mine.

But she surprised me. She always did.

She was quick, tilting her head up and catching my lips with her, pulling me down as she collapsed into the mattress. Her hand in my hair prevented any escape with the light pressure of her palm. The other pressed between us, knotting fingers into my shirt. She sighed, pulling gently at my bottom lip.

 _Oh._

I was still, balanced ever-so-carefully, hovering above her. I felt the tugging of her lips. The tightening and beckoning of her fingers. Her breath warm, making my skin tingle.

I inhaled deeply, taking her air into my lungs. My eyes closed.

"America," I sighed against her lips.

I wanted to pull her against me, attack her with the kind of kisses that made Osten mock-gag, and touch her body that I'd been so afraid would stop beating with life.

The overwhelming draw scared me. _Not now_ , I told myself, as America tilted her head, working her lips at a new angle. A moan filled the silent room, and I realized with a start that it was my own. _Not now._ Everything was still so new. Precarious. She was fragile. She was—

Everything in me rebelled at the thought.

America? Fragile? _No. Anything but._

But now, right now, she is in—

 _Strong_ , my mind ordered. She's strong. She's a fighter. How else would she come back to you? Anyone weaker would have slipped through your fingers.

When the hand pressed between us slipped under my thermal shirt and splayed over my stomach, all reasonable thinking halted.

"Heaven and earth, America, I've _missed you_." I collapsed, my elbow going weak, and fell to the side. The loss of contact could have only been a second, but it was too much. My arms reached out, collecting her small frame easily and pulling her in. I shifted the sheets, cocooning us both. She was settled over me, her legs falling between mine, and her eyes bright. My hands went to the sides of her face, fingers travelling up into that red hair that stood out so vibrantly amongst the pale white sheets. "I've missed waking up next to you. And I've missed you scolding me for eating the real bacon at breakfast instead of that awful turkey stuff they make in the kitchen. And I've missed trying to catch a ten-minute lunch break with you between meetings. And I've missed—"

Her fingers pressed against my lips, halting the words. I'd gotten so caught up, my chest rising with the released anguish of each confession, my eyes trying to map out every part of her as if she'd be snatched away, that I had missed the tears. They were flowing down her cheeks, fast. Her lip trembled. Her eyes begged me to stop.

I removed one hand from its sanctuary, threaded into her hair, and traced a finger over her bottom lip.

"And Lord Almighty above, America, _I've missed kissing you_."

She leaned down. I felt the drop of a tear on my own cheek. Sliding my hand from her lips, I brushed her tears away. Her lips dropped to mine, not moving, just breathing heat, resting there like they'd finally come home.

I reveled in the feel of it. Of how soft she was in my arms, pressed against me. How her pianist fingers wrapped around my shoulders, anchoring her to me.

 _"Maxon_." She breathed into my lips.

My halflidded eyes shot open. I pressed my palms against her cheeks, fighting off the sudden shaking in my arms.

"What?" I choked. _My name_. Her voice saying my name.

All that juvenile teasing I'd done earlier in hopes of seeing gooseflesh rise on her arms suddenly seemed liked foolishness. If she only knew what it did to me, to hear those two syllables exhaled from her mouth after hearing nothing at all for so long. My chest shuddered beneath her.

" _Maxon,_ " There it was again. A feather of a word exhaled from her lips, but _oh_ , I could listen forever.

I dug myself deeper into the pillows behind me, trying to gain a better view of her eyes. They gleamed a watery blue, shining down at me. I laughed with joy, pressing a burst of a kiss to her lips, missing so that it partially landed on her chin. " _How?_ " I begged to kow.

I hadn't heard her voice since she'd woken up five days ago. There were occasional hums and laughs, but no words.

She smiled, her fingers tracing my cheekbone. "Practicing," She whispered, scratchiness already apparent in her voice.

It was ecstasy to hear her. I ran my hands up and down her arms, just reassuring myself that she was there. That this was real.

This time, the kiss I placed on her lips was much more patient, and certainly done with better aim.

"We're going to be okay," I promised her. My heart was swelling with so much hope. The very thing I'd felt had been all but flushed away a week ago. "We are. We're going to be okay."

* * *

 **Hey hey hey, guys! I have this whole planning sheet of plot points and scenes that I meant to include for this chapter, but I'm afraid the pen ran away from me. (I'm not actually sorry. I mean,** ** _fluff_** **. Yes, please.) The truth is that I just finished a terribly heartbreaking book, and needed something to cheer me up. So ta-da. Hopefully it brightens your day too. I haven't forgotten my plan for this story, nor will I neglect to finish it. Thank you all SO MUCH for reading, and even more for reviewing. I love your feedback! Hang on, there are some bumps in the road, but we're are coming closer to the end. God bless!**

 **~SpaceNut**


	20. Chapter 20

Glowing green dots roved over the screen like soldiers. Never mind, bad metaphor. The glowing green dots _were_ soldiers.

"Here's the camp." Captain Rowland pointed to a series of boxes on the map that were outlined in red. "And right here," His finger moved to a small square, "is where our men will infiltrate. Our surveillance indicates that this is an equipment shed used for mundane storage. Things like rope, ladders, and the like. Explosives will be planted in the shed, set on a timer, and detonated once our men have removed themselves safely from the site."

Eadlyn nodded next to me. This plan was nothing new, of course, but it was Eadlyn's first official military advisory assembly. She needed to be briefed.

"And how will our troop breach the enemy lines to plant the explosives without detection?" She was eying the digital map with distrust. "The Loyalists must have their own means of protection."

"Naturally," A lieutenant in full uniform agreed. "As we learned from our last mission into the Loyalist camp, there are land mines planted along the perimeter of the base and a twenty-four hour surveillance of armed guards. We know the guard schedule and placement from a video feed we installed in the surrounding wooded area, and the arrangement of the mines has been carefully mapped and handed over to us by an ex-Loyalist under the protection of the Crown."

"Ex-Loyalist?"

"Yes," I looked at Eadlyn carefully, realizing there was much more to catch her up on than I'd realized. I could start by explaining this, at least. "There have been a handful of men and women who deserted the Loyalist's cause following the kidnapping of the Elite gentlemen. We offered them amnesty under the condition that they provided any valuable information within their means. Most admitted that when they joined the rebellion, they didn't imagine it would be taken to such violent lengths."

"Oh." For a rare moment, my opinionated Eadlyn fell silent.

"Our men are scheduled to arrive and begin embedding the explosives at sundown tomorrow. The devices will detonate approximately forty-five minutes following their placement, and the squadron will return via airlift the following evening once they've been collected from the pre-planned retrieval point." Pointing to a blue mark deep in the green foliage of the map, Captain Rowland tapped it twice for good measure before adding, "All has gone according to plan so far and is continuing on schedule."

When the meeting had ended, and Eadlyn had been thoroughly briefed on all upcoming military movements, we walked away from the room side-by-side in the hall. She gently pressed her hip into mine. I took her hand.

"What did you think, love? Exciting as the movies? I'm afraid it's not all they make it out to be." My steps echoed in the hall, the white marbled tiles only exaggerating the noise.

Eadlyn's shoes shuffled along beside mine, softer in their velvet soles.

"Your mother can't stand those meetings, I'm afraid. Not that I can blame her. Neither of us really have the heart for it."

 _Shuffle clap, shuffle clap._

We pass door after door, headed for America's room to share lunch.

 _Shuffle clap._

Silence was always eerie in those halls. Maybe it was the fact that Eadlyn hadn't said a word since we had exited the doors of Conference Room B, or maybe it was just the spooky rhythm of our footsteps bouncing off the walls. Whatever the reason, I couldn't help the concerned tone of my voice as I tilted my head to catch her eye with a soft, "Sweetheart?"

I stopped my trek forward when I saw her tears. Her lips were pressed together painfully tight, straining to hold back sound. Her eyes were squeezed shut.

I inhaled deepy. "Oh baby, no." She fell easily into my embrace when I tugged her to my chest. "C'mon, it's okay. I know it seems overwhelming at first, but it's not so bad. We're not in a rush. You have plenty of time to-"

A wretched sob, the kind you might hear from a speared animal, broke away from her lips and silenced me effectively. Her hands furrowed into the lapels of my suit jacket. I was infected swiftly and unexpectedly with a bad case of bewilderment.

"I'm sorry! Daddy, I'm _so_ sorry!"

My arms were gentle, holding her the way I did years ago after a bad nightmare. I her hair, utterly befuddled. "It's okay, Eady. Whatever it is, I'm sure everything's just fine."

Her little frame shook with a deeper wail.

"No!" She pushed me away with as much suddenness as when she'd pulled me in. "It's not okay! I can't go back and fix it!"

Her eyes were wild and wide, but they struck me with an undercurrent of pity.

"Fix what, Eady?" I reached for her, but she took a clumsy step backwards. "We're all safe. We're okay."

Her head is shaking back and forth with a ferocious vigor until one more painful sob cracks from her chest, and she drops her chin to her chest. Her voice is a whimper. " _Daddy."_

I touched her forehead ever so lightly, skimmed over her hairline with the tips of my fingers. "It's okay, Sweetheart."

She sniffled. "I'm just so sorry." She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, _hard_ , and when she pulled them away to look up at me her eyes were a bright red, but tearless.

"You don't need to—"

" _Yes_ , I do. I need to apologize. I'm supposed to be the next queen of Illéa, and while mom was comatose, I did nothing but weep over my boyfriend while you ran the country. I saw you hurting, but I was too selfish to help. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that I ignored my duties when you needed me." The muscles in her face were strained, taut like she was pressing her teeth together. Like she was trying to be strong.

I looked at my daughter then. I saw a queen, robed and crowned. I saw a baby, screaming and wrapped in a soft blanket. There was no way to tell the difference.

"Leaders are only great for the trials they have overcome, Eady. And look at all you've faced. Look at all that could have torn you down, yet you are still standing."

"But—"

"I know that sometimes it feels like you've failed, but I promise you, you've never failed me." I kissed her forehead, and with a hand around her shoulder, turned her to walk by my side down the hallway. "Now no more tears. We've had enough of those for a while, don't you think?"

It was a minute or so of soft sniffles and more _shuffle clap_ 's of feet before she told me that yes, she supposed so.

* * *

I may have even surprised myself that night when I heard humming, and realized it was my own.

Lunch had gone smoothly, with May popping in and elaborately braiding Eady and America's hair into plaited ropes. Her bubbly, inquisitive voice added extra character to our clan the way it always did. And I always appreciated the excuse to de-braid America's hair in the evening before her bath. Her hair was always conditioned to silk.

One painfully long conference call with a factory in Hudson that had violated one too many conservation codes had followed lunch. Then there was coffee with a visiting dignitary from New Asia. Of course, a budget meeting followed the coffee tryst, which was finished off with a planning session for a speech on Illea's current state of affairs.

Now, I laid beside America. And breathed for perhaps the first time since our lunch of French onion soup and watercress salad.

America's speech was making slow progress thanks to daily therapy sessions. Her throat was often tired and sore by evening. We had learned to save most late-night conversation for the computer screen.

"Maxon?"

"Yes, love?"

America tap-tapped away on the keyboard. I used the moment to peruse her waist with my fingers. It was in no way new territory, but every touch now felt like coming back to her.

Like fresh air after too long underwater.

When America's fingers stilled, I looked up at the screen.

I choked on all that lovely fresh air.

 _Why hasn't Aspen visited?_

I'd thought about this, of course. How would I tell her? She would notice Aspen's absence. Maybe not too quickly. I thought I might be able to buy a little extra time, given America's short waking periods between restful sleep and the grogginess that came with a weary body. I didn't mean to abuse her mental state or hide anything from her. _No._ Never. But I had. I'd stalled, bided my time, and held my tongue.

I was so afraid though. _Petrified._ What would it do to her? There was no way for me to know, and my mind guessed at the direst possibilities. _A relapse. Another heart attack. This time, she wouldn't wake up._

The bile rising in my throat tasted of foul acid.

America read me all wrong.

Her eyes rolled. Her nose flared in a snort.

 _Don't tell me he's too busy. His Queen demands his presence!_

She gave me a wink, letting me in on her little joke. But I didn't feel much like joking. I felt like dissolving. Disappearing. _Anything_ but this.

America nudged me playfully with her elbow.

When my eyes finally met hers¾well, I never was going to win award for my world class lying skills. She saw through me too easily.

Her lips started to shake first. And then it was her hands, trembling fingers hooked too tight into the sheets.

My mind flooded.

 _No._

 _Stop._

 _Not again. Please!_

I gripped her arms, pulling her close and hoping that if I was steady enough for the both of us, her convulsing reaction would fade. My eyes fought for hers. Pleaded.

 _Stay with me._

 _Don't leave me again. Not again._

"He's not dead." I told he steadily. "He's alive. He's all right."

America's eyes were so wide. Too big. Too vulnerable.

That's when I started saying things that didn't even make sense.

"I love you, Ames. Love you so much. Don't go again." I buried my face against her chest like a child. "He's okay, just please don't go. _Please._ " I was frightened. Frightened to look at her face. Frightened to see her fighting strained breaths, eyes squeezing shut. Frightened to watch it happen all over again.

"Just stay, and I'll fix everything. I promise, on everything I'm worth." My lips rubbed over her skin, quaking in their own right. "Just…" The wetness in my eyes was hatefully familiar. "Just¾"

"Shh," Her hand, America's gentle pianist hand, touched the back of my neck lightly. Her fingers ran up, combing through my hair, then back down to the first bone of my spine. She pressed my head closer to her. "Hush now, my silly king."

Her touch was life. It was warmth. It was the sugary tang of strawberry tarts and the sweet soprano of an evening lullaby.

I melted.

Her lips found my hair, pressing soft kisses here and there. Slowly, my heart allowed a softer pulse. Feeling leaked back into my toes. It didn't quite feel like I was floating away any more. America's hand, gently tracing over my neck, was a tug back to earth.

"I'm not leaving."

It was a whisper, already growing hoarse and strained. It was angels singing.

I nodded against her. My chin moved over the collar of her gown, pulling it along. My lips pressed lightly to the bone of her sternum. I could feel her heart beating beneath my cheek as well as I could feel my own within me.

It was real. It was there, pumping out blood. America was still alive.

The lulling pattern of America's fingers on my neck and breath against my hair was like therapy. I breathed, my stomach expanding to take in the air. There was so many things I hadn't said yet. So many things my mind was weeping over, still mourning in its darkest tunnels.

"I had a panic attack. Right in the recovery room. I don't know if you heard, or if you could have even understood what was happening without seeing it. I sure didn't have a clue."

America's hand stilled instantly, but I needed that feeling. I needed her artful and _completely alive_ hand tracing circles on my neck. I needed to know she was there, and awake, and returned to me.

" _Please,_ " I whispered, looking up for the first time. Her eyes were so sad. "Please don't stop."

Her lips pressed together, and I saw my own grief in her eyes as her hand lead me willingly back to rest on her chest. "Okay."

I took her in with another deep breath. She smelled like my Ames, like every night we'd slept beneath the same sheets.

"And I drank one night. A lot. Way too much, America. It was awful." I allowed an actual laugh, though it was a bit bitter. "Never again. I think I might have scotch banned from the kingdom."

America was a good listener, and she offered a pitiful laugh to join my own.

"Of course, May chose that morning to show up and taunt me. I was just so scared, America. People were telling me to give up, and the things they said, I¾"

I was so ashamed. Here was the truth. Here was where I had abandoned her. Deserted all of the vows I'd promised her. Acted the coward. She deserved to know, though. She should know how I'd sinned against her. She should have the power to yield judgement. If absolution meant laying myself on an altar before her, I was a willing lamb.

"I didn't know how to fight any more, Ames. It was so, _so_ hard." I couldn't pretend. My voice faltered, and I clung to her waist like she could save me.

" _I gave up."_

My chest shuttered. I burrowed against her, hiding from myself. She should push me away. She should give up on me like I gave up on her. She should¾

" _Forgive me,_ " I cried. " _Please._ my America, I'm _so sorry_. I can't¾I," Selfish. I was too selfish. I wanted her any way. "I _need_ you. Forgive me."

It felt like I'd thrown myself out over a chasm, sacrificed into the pit.

Soft fingers on my neck. Soft lips pressed to my hair. An even softer voice, "Oh, Maxon." Her words were scratchy and straining, but so beautiful. "Silly king. You are mine, Love."

She snatched me from the chasm, stowed me away safe from the burning flames. I was home, and safe, and there to stay. But I had to keep my promise. I had to bring Aspen home.

 **Y'all, I had to look up what the superlative form of dire was, because apparently, most dire is not grammatically correct. Who'da thunk it? Haha, well, what's a story without a little emotional instability? Now you have an update and slightly better idea of what exactly is happening to Aspen at the moment. Though how's Lucy holding up, you ask? Ah, we shall get there in time. See you next chapter, lovely fellow fanfictioners! Drop a review and let me know what you're most hoping to see in Chapter 21! You guys rock! God bless!**

 **~SpaceNut**


	21. Chapter 21

"Just to the right a bit more. Then back a step. Okay, maybe a tad too far. Forward, and—," I squinted, "Perfect!"

America rolled her eyes from where she was perched on our bed looking like, well, a queen.

"Thank you, gentlemen. You are free to go."

When the door shut behind the four uniformed men, I turned to America with a wide grin. The sight of her back in _our_ room, lying on _our_ bed, between _our_ sheets was one to behold.

"Don't move!" I exclaimed, holding up a warning finger. She had a tendency to disobey direct orders out of pure spite for being given orders. To my pleasure, this time she only raised her eyebrows in mock amusement.

I rushed to my bedside, pulling out the top drawer of my nightstand to snatch a small velvet bag. Inside was the camera America had given me for our fifteenth anniversary. Once I tapped the top button, the lens came to life with a series of whirs and turns.

America puckered her lips at me.

"Smile, Ames!" I leaned my stomach over the bottom of the bed, capturing a shot of her from the torso up, the sheets pooled around her hips. She looked unamused, and I could hear her voice in my head saying, _Put the camera away. I haven't even brushed my hair, you moron._

I wouldn't want to be anyone else's moron but hers.

I leaned forward on the mattress, crawling on my elbows like a seal scooting over ice. My lips bopped against her nose. I dropped my head to her shoulder.

"I've dragged you back to my lair, and now I will never let you escape." I murmured against the skin of her neck.

America barked out a sharp laugh. Her eyes held that sparkling playfulness I'd missed.

"My King," She said. It was early, and her voice was still strong. She didn't have therapy until after lunch. "I'm afraid your lair is my lair."

I pressed down on my forearms, rising up to loom my body over hers.

"Darling, this is my kingdom, and _all_ the—"

 _Tap tap._

A gentle knock on the door interrupted my speech.

" _Ugh_." I relaxed my arms, carefully dropping my body down to cover America's, making sure my weight was displaced to my legs digging into the mattress. "How am I supposed to woo you with all of these interruptions?"

America looked thoroughly unimpressed, though her hands splayed over my back soothingly. "That was supposed to woo me?" She tutted theatrically. "You're going to have to work harder than that. I _am_ a queen, you know."

I was feeling giddy. And childish. So I blew a raspberry against her collar bone and leaped off the bed as she shrieked at me.

" _Shh!"_ I held a finger to my lips. "Your Highness, there's someone at the door. Please, _do_ compose yourself."

She looked like she might try to give me a wedgie, except we weren't six years-old and she couldn't walk without assistance.

I opened the door quickly, already shooting a toothy grin at whoever waited on the other side

I sobered up quickly enough, that dumb smile melting away.

" _Your Majesty_ ," America called from the bed. "I demand you repent at once for such atrocious behavior. Come, kneel before—"

"Ames." I leaned my head back to catch her gaze. She dropped her playful voice at the look, bending at the waist as if she might see into the hallway.

"Please," I pulled the door open wider and gestured inside. "Come in. It's good to see you, Lucy."

I hadn't seen Lucy since the eerie midmorning departure of Aspen and his troops, when the sun had been drifting up into the duskiness of rose-tinted clouds and the trees on the horizon stood as sturdy lieutenants silhouetted in black. She had worn only a plain nightgown then, the pale blue of it burned in my memory, draped over her moonlight-colored skin. I remember her screams and tears, and I remember the way Aspen's hands pressed her little frame into arms for safekeeping until he returned.

Except he has not returned. It has been weeks, and there is no Aspen in the palace. There is only Lucy with her dandelion hair twisted up in a knot and eyes that speak of anguished silence.

America, sitting up tall on our bed, holds out her thin hand to Lucy with an urgency. "Lucy," she says, more expressively than I know how to speak. "Lucy, please, come sit with me. Talk with me. It is so good to see your face."

It must be the most consecutive words I've heard stream from America's mouth since she woke up, and her voice is scratching painfully by the time she says 'face'. Nonetheless, it is clear she wishes to see much more.

She clears her throat, rubbing a few fingers over her windpipe as if to rid herself of the grating pain. "My heart," she murmurs, " _it aches._ "

Lucy eyes are drawn down at the edges with the kind of sorrow I might imagine in the face of an old beggar. She shuffles quickly to America's side, leaning close, and I am reminded that these two women once fought through a terribly eventful selection together—that their bond goes deeper than I know.

They hold one another close, Lucy half-on half-off the bed with one knee raised over the edge of the mattress. America ducks her head into Lucy's shoulder.

I have so little to offer, and feel closer to a pesky fly than a contributing friend at the moment. My feet carry me quietly to the empty side of the bed where I sit atop the covers and think of my best offering:

"No news can sometimes be very, _very_ good news."

Lucy's responding bark of emotion confirms the fact that I am completely inadequate in this moment. I move to push myself off the bed, but America's hand finds my wrist. I catch her eye peeking through a mass of fire-red hair. She mouths _good_ , and so I sink back into the blankets in utter confusion.

They seem to read each other in a way I'll never know. It's like listening to whale song; I know there is a rhyme and reason behind it all, but it lies far beyond my scope of understanding.

* * *

Lucy and America fell asleep there, folded into the blankets and sheets that left crease lines on their faces. I considered moving them, just to prevent the ache that might come from leaning together like an awkward human tent, but resisted the urge. I didn't want to wake them up with my nudging.

Smoothing out my crinkled dress shirt, I slid off the bed and away from the domestic scene, slinking out the door like I was afraid of being caught.

Maybe I was afraid. I was on a mission, after all.

The halls suddenly felt like untrodden tunnels instead of polished marble, the ornate glass light fixtures like torches in sconces.

I walked to War Room B, flicked on the light switch without looking, and moved to look at my target: a map, glowing with green dots, red moving points over charted lines.

 _Bring him home._

My mind chanted.

 _Bring him home. Bring him home._

I rubbed my eyes, the glaring pinpoints hard to look at in the otherwise dim room. The lack of other voices, the symmetric lines of empty chairs, were eerie in their solitude. I squeezed my eyes together, eyelashes brushing skin, until a burning red flared up, overtaking my sense.

Lungs, breathe.

Eyes, blink.

Heart, beat.

At some point, sitting next to two weeping women in that bed, I felt the sagging stony weight of responsibility drop onto my shoulders. Someone had tied sandbags to my hands, to my feet, around my neck. Everything felt heavier; I was weak.

I could fix it, though. I could fix things. Wasn't that the point of being a king? I had resources, people, money—why was there a problem to begin with?

I reached under the paneled table, my fingers latching onto the padded band of a radio headset that I slid over my ears. The flick of a switch brought static, so I toggled with a knob, spinning until I started to hit the restricted channels.

 _You're not supposed to do this,_ the slither of a voice hissed in my ear. _You're not supposed to be here._

This is my palace. This is my kingdom. These are my men.

 _You should wait. There are advisers for this. There's a reason you have war council meetings._

I'm only calling in, like a routine checkpoint.

 _One man cannot plan such things on his own without hurting others._

No one's getting hurt.

I jerked the knob right, the static fizzling into a hum. Almost there. I jammed my thumb against the call button, waiting for a voice to replace the void noise.

"Base?"

I ripped the radio plug from its socket under the table; that same blurry static buzz returned.

* * *

"Max?"

I looked up from the papers in my lap. America sat next me, looking as regal as one can propped up by six pillows. Her brow was drawn.

"Yes, love?"

She reached her hand up, brushing away the tunnels of hair that fell over the side of her face, and tugged gently on her ear.

I tugged mine back.

"Max," She repeated in a softer murmur, sliding sideways to rest against my shoulder. The aroma of her shampoo was strong and calming. "Will you tell me what's wrong or must I wrangle it out of you?"

I spun a hand through her hair, loving the soft slip of it against my fingers.

"Please, wrangle away."

Ames puffed an exasperated breath. I felt it on my neck, perhaps too keenly, as the closeness of her was making me hyperaware.

"Is this about Aspen? Because you need to know that his leaving isn't your fault. Lucy and I talked a long time this morning; she divulged all the details I was missing. I don't blame you. No one does."

"America—"

"I know how you get," She started up again, but this time her voice held the sort of sternness a child receives in scolding. "You're all responsibility and masochistic worry. Well, _no sir_. You have done enough of that for—"

"I radioed him."

"A lifetime," She finished in breathy passion. Her mouth closed up, swallowed back anything left on her tongue. Lips pressed and cheeks sucked in from her quick breath, she stared at me, and then, " _what?"_

I reached for her hand, needing to hold something close, and she was always preferable.

"I was getting so desperate. They're supposed to call in within the next couple of days. We scheduled this final call before the invasion with a bit of flexibility, not wanting to run risks to high if they couldn't contact us immediately. But seeing you and Lucy cry today," I stopped, pulled her hand up to my lips for a soft kiss, not sure what else to say or if there really _was_ anything else.

America released my hand to splay her fingers over my chest. Her hand was warm from being bundled beneath the blankets before and it felt like I'd taken a big sip of warm tea, the way heat infused my chest from her touch.

"What happened? When you called."

"He answered. It was his voice. Then I hung up." I dropped my head to side where if fell against hers, my lips kissed her hair. "He's still alive."

The long release of her breath spread gooseflesh over my neck.

"We need to tell Lucy."

I nodded, which was really just a back-and-forth rubbing of my cheek against the crown of America's head. "I went to find her right after. She was in Aspen's room. She cried again when I told her."

At this America snorted a laugh. She lifted her head a bit, making me pull back. "You've gotten quite good at comforting women in their distress." Her hand moved to my neck, the warmth of it continued—up, up, up—sliding over the hollowed out cave of my neck, over my stubbly jaw and onto my cheek. "Must have had a lot of practice."

"Twenty years worth, actually."

 **I'm not dead. Seriously, I swear. Still existing. Thank you all for being such marvelous readers and wanting to see where this story ends. Almost there, just a couple chapters left. I've started another year of college and been beyond occupied, but I'm so happy to post a new chapter and I hope you all that have stuck with me enjoy reading it. If you're confused about why Maxon cut off the radio, let me explain:**

 **I'm no military mastermind, but my reasoning was that the soldiers on this mission are in hiding. They are not meant to be seen, heard, or identified in any manner. Reaching out to Aspen without him calling first was running a risk, because he could be heard or tracked by his radio transmission. Hence, once Maxon was reassured that Aspen is still alive by hearing his voice, he cut it off to avoid and breaches of security.**

 **Okay! Thank you again, lovely readers, and Happy September! Please drop a review, feel free to message me, and I will put forth my best effort to update again soon so we can finally reach our resolution! God bless.**

 **~SpaceNut**

 **P.S. I did not take the time to edit this. So this is me apologizing for the mistakes I'm sure exist.**


	22. Chapter 22

As Eadlyn sat at the head of the table, hands folded out of view in her lap and back straight as a dart, I watched from the door. The seats had filled around her, men and women dressed in their stately attire for the first formal meeting with my Eady in the ruler's chair. It was a trial run, of course—one step closer to her taking the reins without truly having to bear the weight on her shoulders, but it was a step nonetheless. I tossed her a wink before sliding the door closed with a click.

We had spent the past two days rehearsing the agenda, even writing up flashcards for Eady to practice as a guideline for the meeting's order. She was far more prepared than I had been when taking the throne, though I could not blame her for having nerves. She had smiled, though, before the door closed. A soft smile, not overly ambitious, but it was reassuring to see her at ease in that hulking chair.

I wasn't going anywhere I had assured her. My assent to king came about in the grieving wreckage of loss. Rebels had struck the nation with fear. Two rulers had been disposed of and the tension with New Asia weighed heavily. I was newly orphaned and newly crowned.

Eadlyn would be alright. Of that, I was sure.

The further I walked from the conference room, the lighter my heart grew. It was not the idea of dumping responsibility on my daughter and flying off scotch-free. I had no such fantasies.

But life was moving forward. We were stepping into a new stage. I was grateful, _so grateful_ , for the world I now lived in. Andy yet, there was such relief in leaving a piece of my past behind. Walking away from hospital rooms with beeping monitors and all those awful, _awful_ tubes. Saying goodbye to feeding tubes. To silence as I pulled back my bed sheets. To mornings without song.

This phase was new. Eadlyn was slowly taking on her future rule, and accepting love into her life as well. There was a wedding to be planned. There was a new son for me to welcome in to our family.

Good things, I told myself. We will know joy in this palace again.

A new phase.

America was—

America was _alive_. And not just alive, but breathing, and talking, and _singing_ again. She was here with me. She was back, with kisses in the morning and warmth in our bed when we fell asleep at night. With words that made me laugh.

Yes, I was grateful. And I was eager to move forward.

There was still pain in the valleys that we had struggled through, no matter how glorious it felt to stand on the high ground we'd climbed to.

* * *

There was still one valley left.

The lurking sorrow of it never truly left a room, never truly left my mind.

It was worst when I walked by the corridor Aspen's room was located in. The room had been cleared out. Lucy had come a week ago and sifted through his things, taking home with her that which she wished to save.

America had gone with her, sat in a chair as they folded each shirt, boxed up his medals.

It had been a long day. The kind that sat in the air with summer's humidity, made everything too hot and uncomfortable, made you want to dunk your head in a bucket of ice.

Made you not want to pull it out.

I had spoken at the funeral, but it had been short and felt like far too little. I hadn't known what to say then. Didn't know what to say now. The shock of it, the rawness, was still so real. Even a month later, as I strode past his emptied room.

I made myself look sometimes. Just look, I rarely went in. But I didn't want to pretend. I wanted to mourn him the right way.

The years of my life had brought loss, and my methods of coping had varied throughout different stages.

There was always the hope of ignoring. I could shut my eyes. I could avoid wherever the pain might prick and go on pretending nothing had changed. Pretend my mother was still seated in the Women's Room if I didn't ever peek inside. Pretend my father slept in his bed if I kept my room. It was only a temporary gauze, though. Because soon I'd have to go to a meeting and take the king's seat. I'd have to commission the stone memorial for my mother's grave.

I'd tried anger, too, but it was an emotion I'd never had much luck with. A few bouts of rage, and I quickly found that it produced no new results. I hated the way I felt after bursting out, hated the continual effort it took to fuel that kind of fury. It only left me exhausted and wishing for America's pianist fingers to pull my head down, rest it on her chest, and run soothingly through my hair.

Depression was perhaps the most tempting. To just slip away like that, to leave behind the world and exist in my own limbo. To sleep. To step away from the things that made my happy, step away from things that felt wrong to enjoy when someone else never would again. But I was a king. I was a husband and a father. I owed to my people, to my wife, to my kids. I owed to myself. To stick it out, be strong, fight through and find life again.

After all the practice, Aspen's death seemed to call me to a new kind of grief. I'd nearly lost my wife. I'd known loneliness at its peak, and come to learn how grateful a man could be. And so I was able to look at my friend's life cut short, and appreciate all that it was mourn what it did not get to become, and hold that solemn reminder with me.

Perhaps I'd learned a bit about life's precious value.

Or perhaps I was just an old man now, and had fallen into that habit of trying too hard to be too wise.

America told me she thought there was something to the whole pressure-makes-a-diamond metaphor.

* * *

When the troop had returned last month, they were dressed in black, of course. That was what our top security personnel _wore_. But it felt like more than that. It was if a parade had arrived at the palace to mourn their fallen leader with the uniforms to match.

We were expecting it by then. There had been a com one week earlier, announcing that the mission had been conducted successfully, but at the cost of a sacrifice. Aspen had gone in, unguided by the predetermined plan as a last-ditch effort to pull off the mission. He hadn't come out.

Lucy still stood at the top steps of the palace, solid like a siren on an island's coast as waves stormed at her feet. The troops had funneled into our courtyard. She saluted them as they marched, and each man had stopped to offer her their own in return.

Shots were fired into the air. A flag was folded. We buried an empty coffin.

Lucy had whispered to America that it wasn't such a bad thing, after all, that they were never able to have children. She didn't have to her baby that daddy wasn't coming home.

America and I had held each other and cried that night.

My heart hurt the way it did when I had watched America's unmoving face shrouded in sterile sheets.

* * *

Lucy had no wish to stay in the home that she and Aspen had built together, nor did she want to be in the palace. Too many memories in both. America begged her to stay with us, to be where we could make sure she was best taken care of.

Instead, Lucy found an apartment in the city. She got a new job as a seamstress for one of the local drycleaners. She said it kept her busy. Kept her distracted. Set her mind on a new phase of life.

* * *

A new phase.

That's what I told myself when I left the conference, passed Aspen's old room, and climbed the stairs to the third floor.

It was just after noon, and America would be waiting for me to share lunch. She'd had another check-up this morning, making sure her recovery was staying on track. She moved easily now. No need for a wheelchair. She even stood through the long procession we'd held after Aspen's funeral.

I found her in our common room, two plates of penne ala vodka with shaved truffles placed at the table before her. There was a bottle of Vouvray paired with two wine glasses. From the back, all I could see was the falling curls of America's pinned-up hair.

I couldn't help it. My eyebrows went up; I bit my lip.

America only drank Vouvray when she was in the _mood_.

At the sound of my deep exhale, America turned, quick to smile at me over her shoulder. She looked uncharacteristically giggly, her eyes bright.

It was in deep contrast with the solemn mood that had saturated the air these days.

I offered a smile in return, kissing her forehead before moving forward to take a seat across from her at the table.

"You look cheerful," My words held a question. "How was your appointment today? Everything check out? Ready to go battle some kung-fu elephants in the Himalayas yet?"

She laughed, her eyes still lighting up. "You will always have a terrible understanding of jokes, my darling husband."

"You laughed!" I pointed a finger at her. She couldn't take it back.

"I laugh because they are always so _bad_."

I shrugged. "Maybe that's my strategy."

She shook her head, looking down, that smile ever-present.

Something had changed. Something good.

"The appointment went well." She answered, unfolding a cloth napkin and draping it across her lap. She slid her finger mindlessly around the rim of her plate. "Doc says I'm right on track."

I nodded, mimicking her napkin placement.

I'd been terrified when the news about Aspen had been delivered, realizing that I would have to pass it on to America. To my wife. To my wife who'd recently suffered from a stress-induced heart attack. To my wife who I'd lost to a comma for over three months. To my wife who I'd just gotten back. I feared how the news would affect her, that it might cause a setback. Or worse, though thinking about worse had me walking like a dead man. I hadn't known what to do, even consulted Dr. Hendrix before I spoke with America.

She read the fear in my eyes as I told her, could see the grief I held over losing my best friend, but also the terror that feed on my worst nightmare returning.

She'd kissed my lips softly, then placed my hand over her heart.

 _Feel that?_ She'd asked, two palms closed over the back of my head, letting the pulse of thump-thump beat against my skin. _I'm still here. I'm not leaving again. We will grieve together._

And so we did. So we still were.

And that was why her unceasing grin was throwing me for a loop.

I reached across the table, palm up, and she slid her fingers into my grasp. I could feel her pulse as I held her hand.

"In fact, he said I'm ahead of schedule. Healing up quicker than he thought I would."

I grinned. "That's my girl."

She squeezed my hand before pulling away to grasp the wine bottle between us.

"Is Vouvray okay? I know it's a bit early for a glass. I just—just had a craving." She popped the cork out and I offered her my glass in answer.

One glass of wine wouldn't hurt.

She tipped the bottle, filling both our glasses before holding up her own.

"Cheers."

I held mine out to hers automatically. "Cheers to what?"

She swirled the golden bubbles. "To healing."

Our glasses clinked. Sips were taken.

"This is quite the lunch. And Ames, you look," I took a moment, let my eyes take her in piece by piece, and found her glowing. "I mean, you always do, but you really look like an angel, Ames."

She stuffed an oversized bite of pasta into her mouth, half falling from her lips back onto the plate.

I wheezed a roar of laughter.

America blushed then, her cheeks pinking, all the way down to her neck. She snatched the napkin up from her lap to dab at the sauce left trailing down her chin, her eyes glued to the table.

It was one of the most absurd sights I'd encountered.

America _blushing_. And at something as small as a sloppy bite of penne. We'd long ago passed any guises of embarrassment in our marriage. We'd been together too long to be bashful.

"What is _that_?" I asked, pointing at her face.

" _What_?" She touched her hand gently to her lips, feeling for any remnants of sauce. "What is what?" Her hand reached up, pressing her hair back behind her left ear. She was suddenly all self-conscious nerves and anxious eyes.

I wondered what the wine was really for.

" _That_. On your face. Call me crazy, but is that a blush I see?" I hoped my eyes held the teasing I tried to put into the words. Reaching out a hand, I dabbed my thumb across her lip, pretending to catch a bit of the white cream.

I just really missed touching her lips.

Ames shook her head in a fluster. The fork she'd laid aside was re-gripped, giving the dish another try with a more firm, vigorous stab. She stuffed another bite in and avoided my eyes.

I mimicked her, taking my own bite—it was delicious, unarguably. But I didn't give the meal much thought. There was an enigma sitting in the chair across from me.

America chewed for much longer than was necessary to break up a piece of pasta. I watched as she carefully swallowed, then immediately brought the wine back to her lips.

There was a plain wax candle burning between us, and I wondered if she'd found and lit it or if one of the kitchen staff had just been trying to add a special touch to the meal. A splinter-thin waft of smoke rose above it, threading through the air.

"So the check-up—"

"Good." America answered quickly. A contrite nod. "All good. No red flags. Full steam ahead, and what not."

"Wonderful, but I was wondering about your iron levels. Did they run another test? I know last time Dr. Hendrix was a bit concerned—".

"Good." She repeated.

I let my eyebrows raise. "Okay. Good."

She pressed her lips together, but it was in a fumbling way, her mouth shaking a bit as she dropped her fork. "I, _I had wanted_ , wanted to-" Her teeth bit down to catch the quiver in her lip.

Since she had been in that bed, I was on edge for all forms of distress. I pushed away from the table, not bothering with my chair when it tipped back too far and fell. She turned to me, swiveling her legs as I came to kneel in front of her. Eyelevel. I folded my fingers around her jaw, held her in place, made her look at me.

"You have to tell me what's wrong America. You gotta. We can fix it. I will not let you go again. Trust me to-"

She cut me off again, but this time in a far more pleasing manner. My words caught on her lips when she kissed me. It was awkward, as I was midway through a plea and my mouth tasted far too garlicky.

But America kissed me earnestly. Pressing forward, sliding closer until her knees were pressing against my hips.

I was stock-still and stupefied.

She pulled away minutely, enough to look me in the eyes. Hers looked anxious. Questioning. I tilted my lips back a centimeter to brush hers, then press more firmly with the promise of solidity.

Hands gripping my hair, America pressed into the kiss. She was all hot pressure, tightly coiled. There was a fire, but guarded firmly by a wall of stone.

I touched her hands in my hair with gentle fingers, freeing their grasp and gripping them within my own instead, then bringing both to rest between us. My thumbs traced over the smooth hills of her knuckles.

Her lips pressed on, hard and stiff. I wanted to make her melt.

The dress she wore was two layers, one sheer cream over a deeper emerald, I hiked up both layers to her thighs. Her knees, once trapped by the taut fabric, slipped easily to frame my waist the way they were meant to. I felt her tight lips gasp against my mouth.

" _America,_ " I murmured. "Don't go cold. You needn't be so tough, my dear."

Perhaps deservedly, the last to words earned me a bite on the side of my bottom lip. My skin jumped at the sharp prick.

America laughed, pulling away with a bit of guilt in her eyes and a hand pressed to her smiling mouth.

I pressed a thumb to the spot she'd nipped with her teeth, pulling it away to see a faint smear of red. I held it up to her for inspection.

"See what you did? Made the King of Illea bleed. I ought to call in the guard posted at the door and have you taken away. _Treason_ , that's what this is."

The light was glowing from her laughing eyes and I couldn't find it in me to be even a smidge miffed. She was smiling in that way—the way that told me there was much more to come. I'd poked the bear: the beautiful bear with the coat of red fire and the voice of a lark.

America leaned close again, slow this time, and licked the tender spot where the blood had lingered. Her lips moved to soothe the slight ache, cooling the heat of the exposed bite.

My mind pooled with warm honey, that soft and sweet and slow drip pouring out to fill the hollow of my skull. Because it was hollow now, emptied of all else as I felt the sensation of my wife's lips working to nurse a wound. My body felt caught in molasses, as if I were trying to wade through a syrupy mire. I didn't want to move, didn't want to resist.

I moaned; my chest emptied with the sound.

America was gleeful, returning to hold me closer still, but this time with the warm pliability of a lover instead of the wooden hold she'd administered before. Her legs caged me in once again, heels raised up to lock me tighter. The long necklace of pearls that hung down to her lowest ribs was caught between us, digging uncomfortably as our bodies pressed together.

I lifted one hand, running it up, up, up to reach the top of her spine where I gripped the pearls and begun to pull. America broke the kiss long enough for me to rip the necklace up between us and drop it on the floor.

Then her lips were back, but now on my shadowed jaw. And now blazing their own uncut trail down my neck. My collar felt suddenly to tight, and I fought against the knot of my tie to shuck it off.

 _Off_ , my mind breathed. _Off, off, off. All of it off._

America's fingers pulled at the edge of my starched shirt, and then her lips had room to pioneer their way across my collarbone and _oh, sweet bliss_.

An ache began to radiate from my knees, bearing my weight against the wood floor. My hand dropped from America's neck, joining the other at her waist where I gripped and lifted. She drew her legs tighter around my abdomen like it was second nature—maybe it _was_ —so that I could stand.

Once at the edge of our bed, I lowered America down into the plush of the blankets, her face turned up to mine, and leaned over her to rest an elbow on either side of her head. Her eyes were closed, lips smiling as she exhaled heavy breaths. I let a hand wander to her shoulder sliding down the fabric of one sleeve, lips moving to trace the same path with adoring—

" _NO._ "

The switch in my head, lost under all the sweetness of honey seeping through my thoughts, flicked on. My voice was loud and crisp.

I shot to my feet to quickly; my head swam nauseously. I staggered away from the bed, built up some space, clenched my hands and shook them out.

America laid still on top of the covers. I had no view of her face from the distance I'd placed between us. I could only see the twitch of her hand.

It took some forced thought, but I fought my heart rate back down steadily, turning away to stare at the wall. My hands were knotted in my hair, pulling it roughly, giving me a pinpoint to focus on as I broke through the haze.

When I turned back, America had sat up. Her hands were folded in her lap and legs crossed at the ankle. Her head was tilted down, gaze locked onto her lap.

I took a steadying breath, moved back to her.

She looked up. Tears were sliding down in steady tracks from the corners of her eyes.

I halted.

The look, the _look_ in her eyes.

Betrayal.

I rushed forward, holding out my hands as if they might fix something for once.

"No, no _, no_ ," I begged, reaching for her thin fingers.

Her eyes flashed, mortified. "You don't need to say it _again_ , Maxon."

"America, no—I mean," I felt like I might choke. "Not _no_. I don't mean no. I mean-, what I'm saying isn't that. I'm saying, I, I-".

She scuttled backwards as I attempted to catch her hands between my own. Her dress was still bunched up around her knees. Her hands slipped from mine.

"America, you _have_ to know. You _must know_ , I could never in my life, not in a hundred years, be _disinterested_ in loving you." I searched her eyes, knowing mine must have looked wild. "You know what you _do_ to me, all the things you make me feel."

With no response, I climbed onto my knees, crawling over the bed until I could wrap my fingers around her shoulders.

"It sounds so silly." She muttered, her eyes skirting away from mine. "I just didn't know how to say it. I was so nervous, scared that it might be different now."

She glanced up.

"I know it, Maxon. I know I'm older than I once was. And- and I know the coma left me undernourished, less like the kind of a body you would wish to hold—"

" _What?_ " My lip curled; I couldn't help it.

She frowned. Her eyes still so unsure.

"I don't _want_ you any less today than I did when we were just kids, getting married and promising words we hadn't yet begun to fully grasp. America, _I want you more_." I kissed her quick on the forehead before she could pull away, "I want you more, as we are now, understanding what it means to love someone the way that I love you."

She slipped a hand over mine on her shoulder.

I quirked up on corner of my mouth. "And don't you dare doubt that, foolish woman of mine."

America pressed her lips together, eyes flashing.

"I may bite you yet for that, My King."

I smiled a breathy smile, nudging my nose up against hers like a child, pressing my lips sloppily to her cheek bone.

"Maxon." She whispered, a hand raising to trail through my hair.

"We just can't now, Ames. You know it. You know it has nothing to do with not wanting to. _Clearly_ , a lack of enthusiasm is not the problem on my part." I kissed across her skin to wear her temple met her hairline. They were light and playful pecks, not like the passion-fueled touches shared before. "Someday. Someday when you're all better. When we don't have a thing to worry about. When the Doc says I can love you the way I want to—"

" _Maxon_." The hand in my hair gave a teasing pull.

I pulled away to meet her eyes.

She laughed a jittering laugh, nerves present again, but there was a brightness about her, too.

"It's like I told you before: _good_. Doctor Hendrix said today, that…" The blush was back on her cheeks. "That I'm cleared for any and all activities. Fit as a fiddle and what not." Her fingers grazed my scalp, my hair feathering through them until her hand rested warmly at the nape of my neck.

I licked my lips.

" _Oh_."

She grinned, "Yeah."

I felt that heavy, pooling honey start to trickle down again. Thoughts cleared away to make room for one thing: my wife.

I bent my head down to kiss her clavical, then laughed against the skin and bone.

"It's been a while."

America laughed too, her fingers already freeing the buttons of my shirt.

"Let's hope I remember how."

* * *

 **Oooh, golly. I'm not a writer of the smut fashion, and this is certainly not a piece of lemon-y work, but I did feel that this was a scene that should be included.**

 **That being said, please feel free to throw your virtual tomatoes at me over the loss of Aspen. I realize this chapter was a bit of a bumpy ride. We jumped through some hoops, traveling from one pole to the other. However, I want to say thank you to all still reading. I _am_ going to finish this story, despite my turtle-like pace in publishing it. We are in the final stretch.**

 **Please drop a review. I am so thankful to see that some of you are trekking with me.**

 **God bless.**

 **~SpaceNut**


	23. Chapter 23

The Women's Room smelled overwhelmingly like a sack of potpourri, but after the initial whiffs, my nose had adjusted to the floral aroma. What, after all, was one to expect when his daughter was picking flower arrangements for her wedding?

Six extra tables had been ushered in earlier that day, lined up in a semi-circle around the main seating area where Eadlyn took the position of honor. And she looked none to happy about it. Her eyes flicked up to mine eagerly when I knocked on the open door.

"Dad!" She yelped. "Yes? What is it?" The attendant bent over next to her, startled by the outburst, jumped back from her work in arranging a bouquet. "I do not wish to neglect any of my duties."

The young thing was already rising from her chair, making me laugh.

"Sit back down, Eadlyn, and embrace the process."

She harrumphed in a manner that reminded me much more of the six year-old Eady I once knew.

America was seated on a cushioned sofa, smiling to herself in a way that made me think she shared my thoughts. I slid down next to her, a hand resting on her thigh.

"Do you remember," she turned to me, red curls swept back over her shoulders, "when we were planning our wedding?"

"I remember the mess."

It had been a dark time in so many ways. I was grieving and confused, feeling the physical loss of my mother and unsure how to mourn a father whose presence I'd resented for so long. There had been bloodshed within my own walls; I'd failed to protect my people. My body was weak and recovering, restricting me to bed like a sick child.

But there was joy, too. I had America, when I'd given up all hope of calling her my wife. When I'd felt betrayed and wounded. And I had answers, finally, of how to resolve the raids. There was a path to a better life ahead.

"Messy it was, but not all bad." I kissed her ear, then ran my thumb under the lace of her sleeve. "I seem to remember you coming to my room with the two bouquets to which you'd narrowed it down, and I have _much_ better words than messy to describe what followed."

"Maxon!" With a hand clapped over my fingers where they teased up her arm, America whisper-yelled.

It was so difficult to stop, though, with that pretty blush rising up her neck.

"I can't even remember the color of the flowers. But I _do_ remember the very unqueenly things you whispered in my ear when—"

America squeaked, actually _squeaked_ , and drew a few eyes towards the little corner we'd claimed of the couch.

"Quiet, love." I admonished. "People might speculate that we're indulging in inappropriate pastimes."

She eyed me warily, yet fiercely. "We would not want to offend _the people's_ delicate sensibilities, King Maxon."

I was working up a retort, and trying to decide how I might succeed in making her squeak again, when Eadlyn's voice cut across the room with increased volume.

"Mom. Dad. _Stop._ "

Eadlyn held her arms out on either side of her, each hand clutching a ribbon of a different shade of lilac. And her nose was wrinkled up.

"Oh brother, I forgot how gross you guys are."

I grinned, daring a butterfly kiss America's neck.

"Just get through the wedding preparations, Eady. If your Kile boy loves you like I think he does, you have a lot to look forward to."

Glancing down, I caught the tail end of America's smile. She lifted a hand to my chin, pressing her thumb gently to my bottom lip. "It was messy," She repeated, "but you were _so_ worth messy, my dear."

Eady did not pretend to hide her groan as she plucked another lily from a vase.

* * *

Sleep had finally returned to me in more healthy amounts since America had woken up, but not every night was so merciful. There were nightmares. Perhaps I'd be a fool to think it could be otherwise.

Sometimes they were violent, and I would imagine the last moments of Aspen's life, dying somewhere in the Loyalist base. He'd step on an uncharted landmine or be shot through, punctured with holes like a sieve. I'd watch his blood drain away and scream, then wake up to a quiet room and sweating hands.

Tonight was different, though. Instead of Aspen's dead eyes, I looked at the familiar pale skin of a comatose America back in her hospital bed. Her eyelashes brushed her cheeks, staying shut despite the cacophony of gun shots that were hardly muffled by the walls. It was too late to try running, and how I could even begin to transport America with all the machinery necessary to bring along added to the impossibility of escape.

She breathed steadily through her nose. I felt my sprinting heartbeat pounding behind my eyes.

 _Blockade_ , I told myself. If I couldn't get us out, I'd have to make sure a threat didn't get in. There was a large metal chest that stored spare linens at the foot of America's bed, and I pushed it flush to the door before stacking my abandoned chair on top, jamming the door handle.

The gunshots _boom_ ed like fireworks. The last time I'd heard such heavy artillery was the day my mother and father were killed, and now I could only hope that my children were safe below ground. If Ames and I died, Eadlyn would become Queen. Surely Ahren would be willing to return home temporarily and help his sister settle into the role. We had a few Allies who relied on Illea heavily enough to lend support as well, and if it was necessary—

 _Phwap Phwap Phwap_.

The sound of bullets popped. Closer. _Closer._

Then voices, loud, shouted just outside. I held my breath as if they could detect the movement of air.

Then the shots began again, and I felt the hope bleach out of me.

At first the bullets only pounded into the door, lodging there. But seconds passed, and eventually the first one broke through. It was only a thin board of wood, after all.

The shiny metal flew through the air faster than my eyes could follow, but I heard the sound and saw the gleam imbed in the opposite wall.

Then another. A third.

I dropped to the floor. No place to go, no escape.

The gunfire grew more erratic, flying in at different angles. Some bullets ricocheted off the tile floor. One struck a light in the ceiling, spraying glass and sparks.

I was crawling towards America, desperate, knowing only that death was close and I needed to be beside her.

Aside from the green lights blinking on some of the machinery, white dominated the room. Until the red bloomed.

It was unreal, how the blood spread across America's chest, soaking through her hospital gown and folded-over sheets. Her body had jolted from the impact, then fallen back limply into the mattress.

She didn't thrash, didn't press her hands to the wound. Her mouth was sealed closed, but oh, I screamed for her.

Springing from my knees, I flew to lean over her, pushing my palms against the wet fabric.

" _America!_ " The guns kept firing, and I distantly heard another overhead light burst. "Stop! _Stop bleeding!"_

But her face was passive and immovable.

As if she'd been dead all along.

* * *

My fingers reached out. Her intake of breath was obvious, chest rising, half exposed beneath a sheet. I could even see the slight bend of her nose moving with the rhythm of her exhales.

But fear breathed too, tightening the muscles in my back. It was irrational, unexplainable. My muscles seized, tendons feeling like live wires, snapping with static.

 _Is she there?_ So many mornings I had woken up to my wife's body, but felt the woman was missing.

 _Open your eyes!_

I needed it. Needed proof that my Ames was still with me, hadn't slipped away again. Needed her to look at me, say my name, touch her lips to mine.

She didn't move despite the urgings in my mind, so I whispered into the silence, "America?"

Nothing.

To wake her seemed selfish. It was, after all, only an illogical fear that drove me. Ames had been doing so well with her recovery, giving me no reason to doubt that the past coma could somehow reclaim her, that death loomed near. She needed her rest, not a husband drawing her from sleep at indecent hours of the night.

My hand disregarded all the sound judgement that was compiling in my head. _Traitor._

I reached for her hair first, a light brush of fingers to move it from her temple.

The touch was safe, unlikely to disturb her. She remained still.

 _Good. Sleep. Don't let me bother you._

Except I needed her to move, to murmur, if I was to be reassured that she hadn't slipped away from me.

So the next touch was more daring—my thumb tracing over her cheek bone with a pressure light as sea spray.

 _C'mon, baby. Something. You've gotta give me something._

But she didn't. Not a budge. And I grew frantic. To hell with sleep, I needed her to talk, sing, kiss—prove she's alive.

I leaned over her, fingers moving fast. "America!" It was a whisper-shout, something in me naturally refrained from a full-on yell due to the still early hour. "America, love, wake up. Wake up."

I held her cheeks in my hands, touched her neck, gripped her shoulders.

Blue eyes opened to connect with mine, wide and worried.

"Maxon?" Her pale hands covered mine where they had come to rest on her rib cage. "What's wrong? Are the kids okay?" She read the fear in my eyes with ease.

Shame hit me quickly. I'd had no intention of waking her at all, let alone in such an unnerving state. The look in my eyes alone must have been frightening.

With a kiss to her forehead, I forced my heartbeat down.

 _Calm. Stay calm._

"I'm sorry, Ames." I whispered softly, lips drifting to her cheek, then lifting away. "I—I was…just checking."

The softening in her eyes was immediate. Whatever threat she'd feared had vanished, and she pressed me to her chest instead, her chin claiming the crown of my head. "Shh," she hummed, fingers moving to soothe with gentle touches through my hair. The position was similar to how she had once held Ahren after the nightmares he'd known as a young boy. I should have felt like a child, but I could not resist the sweetness of the contact or the warmth of her closeness.

I melted, greedily.

"Sorry," I whispered again.

"Stop apologizing," She replied softly. "You have been so brave for the both of us. For everyone. But Max, you don't always have to be. I'm here for you, just like you're her for me. And if that means waking up so we can talk through the bad stuff," She kissed my ear, "then the metaphorical sun has risen."

I laughed against her neck, loving the feel of her skin as she pressed me closer.

"Just a bad dream."

"Tell me about it."

I didn't really want to, but maybe that was why I should. So I relayed the flashback of sorts, with the extra, twisted details. When I got to the blood, to the bullet that killed dream-America, she found my hand beneath the sheets and squeezed.

"It—it's not even" I murmured, searching for the right thing to say. I didn't want to worry her excessively, but it also wasn't right to hold back what had been haunting. "It was the shooting that got me so anxious. It's just that sometimes… sometimes I wake up to see you sleeping, and it's so much like the image I saw for those three months, that I feel like you never woke up, and I get so paranoid. Like it was all a dream, and you're still lost to me. I just need to see your eyes, or hear your voice, just something to prove you really did come back."

I pulled away to catch her eyes as I spoke, and we laid across from one another each on our side. Ames reached out a hand and pressed it over my bare chest. Her fingers traveled back and forth with soft brushes.

"Like this?" She asked.

I felt like I might tremble.

"Y-yeah. Like this."

She licked her lips and offered a small smile. "I can do this, Maxon, whenever you need. For however long you need it. And we'll get through the ghosts. Because I am here, _with you_." She pressed her hand, firm, against my skin.

Even though the image of blossoming red flashed through my head, even though the word _ghosts_ brought up the striking thought of Aspen, I nodded and pressed my hand over hers, watching the light and shadows cut faintly into the room from the windows.

 **Oops. Hi guys. Feeling a little ashamed on the other end of the internet as I post this, but I'm posting it nonetheless. I apologize for how long it's taken to get a chapter up (there are a few more coming down the pipeline before I can officially and finally put a bow on this thing), but life has been a whirlwind. For any and all still reading, I** _ **love**_ **you guys! The occasional review still pops up in my inbox, and I'm blow away by every kind word. I hope you enjoyed Chapter 22. A little bit of growth before I move onto one of my final plot points. Stick with me if you can!**

 **God bless,**

 **SpaceNut**


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